roger cayton tried in vain to pump the juniors about fluffy jim's luckless interference with the final tie.

"explain it? who could! it just happened," said robin arkness, the fourth form boy who had led the cheering. "you know how it is, cayton—the wider you open your mouth to shout the tighter your eyes close. i just yelled myself blind."

"oh, come, now! you had clodhopper jim bang in the midst of you behind the goal. some of you must have given him a final leg-up over the ropes."

"we didn't!" was robin's indignant denial.

roger thought he detected a shade of emphasis on the "we".

"who did, then?" he sharply inquired.

but robin and his chums—known at foxenby as "robin hood and his merry men", because of their escapades in the school shrubbery or "forest"—were not to be drawn. their ranks were recruited from both houses, and it was an unwritten law amongst them that nothing to the detriment of either house should ever be spoken outside the select circle.

"we were awfully pipped about it, honour bright, cayton," said their frank-faced spokesman, evasively. "why, to be sure, aren't we just as proud as peacocks to know that our rousing cheer bucked old forge into that great run? and we didn't half 'lam' fluffy jim for butting in and queering the pitch—eh, chaps, what?"

"rather!" the merry men chanted, in fervent chorus.

"oh, cut away—skedaddle!" cried roger, losing patience. "you're shielding somebody, and that's a rotten thing for men of honour to do when foxenby's reputation is at stake."

leaving this barb to rankle, as he knew it would, in the hearts of the young adventurers, who prided themselves on being loyal to the core, roger returned to the study which he and dick forge shared between them.

dick was seated there, but did not raise his head, being too deeply immersed in the latest issue of the foxonian to heed his chum's entry.

"hallo! that scurrilous rag out again?" said roger. "don't soil your hands, dick; i'll reach the tongs."

"oh, rats, roger! don't be prejudiced. it's 'extra special' this time," was dick's enthusiastic comment. "don't i just wish i could do anything half so clever!"

"are you quite sure you couldn't? you generally 'click' when you make up your mind to tackle a thing, dick."

dick flushed. "don't!" he said, quickly. "oh, my dear old pard, have a care! you are stirring dangerously deep thoughts within me. if i could write with the sparkle and wit that luke harwood puts into this topping magazine of his, i'd be content never to kick a football or swing a cricket-bat again. listen to this, lad—it's great!"

appreciatively he read aloud a little article, in which luke harwood had scourged some foxonians whom he had caught in the act of twisting an inoffensive donkey's tail. the irony was clever, though probably aimed too high to penetrate the skulls of those whom it was intended to shame.

"literature, my good roger," dick declared. "shows a kind heart, too—he's down on animal-torturers."

"quite right that he and everybody else should be. yet," said roger rather bitterly, "in his laudable anxiety to protect quadrupeds, he might have extended a little consideration to donkeys of the two-legged variety."

"don't be sphinx-like, roger! when you look like an owl and talk like a book i'm afraid of you. what are you getting at?"

"in plain english, then, this humane editor slates the fatheaded youngsters who twisted the donkey's tail, but omits to chide himself and his clique for pulling the leg of fluffy jim, the village ass. now, honestly, which do you call the crueller sport of the two?"

"you've turned on the searchlight, roger, as you always do, you clever beggar! why, to be sure, that was a rotten business. you told harwood so."

"it was cruel all round, and hurt the school more than it did fluffy jim. your big toe mayn't be right for months, and what guarantee have we that we shan't lose next term's replay by a couple of goals or more? the maddening part of the affair is that fluffy jim couldn't have got to walsbridge on his own. somebody paid his fare!"

dick coughed uneasily. unsuspicious by nature, believing good of everybody, he had already wiped from his mind the mortification of his lost triumph.

"see here, roger—no offence, old man, but aren't you in some danger of exaggerating a thoughtless lark into a deep-dyed melodramatic plot? i'll convince you that you are, dear boy. here's harwood's own account of the match—a top-notch piece of reporting, too. listen to the last paragraph.

"'it was heartrending,' he writes, 'to see this titanic struggle brought to an inconclusive finish, just as the fruits of well-won victory were at our gallant captain's lips. no one can guess what motive was at work in the village boy's mind when he scrambled in to kick the ball from forge's toes. it is charitable to assume his intentions were good—probably he thought to win fadeless laurels for himself and foxenby by netting the winning goal. such intricate things as football rules, involving the replay of interrupted cup-ties, could have no meaning for him. the whole thing seems, at first blush, a disaster beyond compensation. but are we not entitled to hope that good may yet come out of evil—that even the great octopus may be unable to prevent us winning the replay by such a handsome margin that none can dispute our supremacy? such a wish, i am sure, is in the heart of every fox who witnessed that glorious and unforgettable game.'"

roger stuck it through in silence, repressing an impatient gesture. useless to "slate" luke harwood while dick forge so manifestly credited the foxonian editor's loyalty. the paragraph was engagingly sincere in tone, and by his able control of the school magazine "old wykeham's pet fox" always had the last word. so roger gulped down his bile in an effort to fall in with his chum's mood.

"he puts it well," said roger, "and we can admire his editorial skill without waiving our right to criticism. i'm open to wager, for instance, that of twelve pages this month he gives quite nine to the affairs of holbeck's house exclusively. am i right or not?"

"oh, quite right, roger. rather natural, you know—he eats and sleeps there."

"getting one-eyed in the process. now, why shouldn't rooke's house be more in the picture? we're a robust lot, even though we don't wear the carpet threadbare on prize-giving days. they produce the most scholars; we turn out the athletes. honours are evenly divided, but the foxonian's space is not!"

"granting all that, old spitfire, what remedy have we?"

"a rival paper," answered roger, dramatically. "nay, but me no buts. a rival magazine, sir, edited by richard forge, and to bear the name of rooke's home rag. all in favour, hands up. carried unanimously!"

"nonsense, roger, thumbs down! your project is crazy; we could never run to it!"

"what!" thundered roger. "shall it be said that dick forge, captain of foxenby, fears to tread where luke harwood has so long stalked alone? you can do it, old man, and you shall. you owe it to yourself, and to rooke's house. mr. editor, i salute you. may i have the honour of contributing something to the first number of rooke's house rag?"

dick thrilled with delight. his chum's spontaneous enthusiasm carried him along like a cork on the tide. always he had cherished in secret the hope of rivalling the literary reputation which the school magazine had won for harwood; now, at last, his dream was to come true. jottings from his pen, unsigned, but obviously his, were to be printed, circulated throughout foxenby, discussed indoors and out, compared with harwood's work, and not necessarily to the captain's disadvantage.

his cheeks burned feverishly with the joyous excitement of it all. football had small space in his thoughts now; anybody could kick a ball about—that was brawn, but writing was brain! enraptured by this new bond of friendship, the pair discussed matters in every detail, and before bedtime their plans were cut and dried.

it was to be a fortnightly magazine, for which dick, whose aunt kept him well supplied with pocket-money, was to be financially responsible; the subscription was to be at the same rate as that fixed for the foxonian, and the number of pages were, in the aggregate, to be the same also; but there all resemblance between the two papers was to end. originality of method was to be a strong point, imagination was to have full rein, and the fortnightly publication would give sufficient time for repartee if the honour of rooke's house were in any way assailed.

"i shan't sleep to-night, i know," said dick, at the end of their confab. "not even yet can i wholly credit the thing. tell me, honestly, roger—have you the faintest doubt of its success?"

roger slapped the captain's broad shoulders with unusual zest and strength.

"no possible doubt whatever," he avowed. "we're heart and soul together in this venture, old boy, and success is a certainty!"