the manager of the moston fairtype press made no bones whatever about undertaking the publication of the rooke's house rag. competition was healthy, he said, and he believed there was plenty of room for a second magazine in a big school like foxenby, "whose pupils," he declared, "were drawn almost exclusively from the noblest and wealthiest classes."

also, he continued, he welcomed the chance of showing what his firm could do in trade rivalry with greatorex & co., who printed and published the foxonian for "mr. harwood". a rough estimate of the possible cost? certainly, if the young gentlemen wished it, but it would be rather a waste of time, as, from the standpoint of one who had the interests of foxenby at heart, he was prepared to cut the price as low as it was possible to do it without actually losing money on the job.

deposit? he wasn't at all concerned about that. he could take it that mr. forge held himself personally responsible for the cost of production? that would do, then; the word of honour of the captain of foxenby was good enough for him, any day.

"send your 'copy' along in due course, gentlemen, and it shall have my personal attention from the moment it enters our doors," he declared. "i can't say fairer than that, can i?"

the two boys, who had quite anticipated some hard bargaining, were almost overwhelmed by this ready support of their optimistic plans. their amazement was so obviously reflected in their faces that the manager laughed.

"don't be alarmed, mr. forge—keep smilin', mr. cayton," he said. "i'm not givin' anythin' away! though nominally manager of this place, i am, in the main, its proprietor, and i shall not lose in chargin' you on the very lowest scale. there is somethin' in advertisement, you know."

"don't be alarmed, mr. forge"

"don't be alarmed, mr. forge"

reassured, dick took away with him the cash he had come prepared to deposit, and both adjourned to the nearest café to celebrate their good fortune in finding so accommodating a publisher. a happy omen, surely, for the success of the new magazine!

all that week dick, not without a twinge of conscience, accepted help from roger in his "prep." so that they might both give more time to the arrangement of the rag's first number. outsiders had not yet been invited to contribute; the first issue was to be a surprise. every boy in the school was to receive a free copy, in the confident hope that his subscription would be forthcoming when he had digested the mental food afforded by its contents.

it is the way of all amateurs to be over-sure at first.

a rude awakening awaited dick and roger. had the thames flowed past foxenby on the morning of publication, it would have run no risk of being set afire. nimble youngsters aided in the distribution of the copies, and by midday every boy in the school had received the rooke's house rag. there was, however, no sign of anyone missing a meal to read it. some copies, alas, were flapping against the shrubbery trees—cast adrift, as is often the fate of literature circulated free.

bravely pretending that their hearts were not somewhere in the region of their boots, dick and roger smiled at one another.

"taken their breath away, i fancy, old chap," said dick. "knocked them speechless. anyhow, the silence is uncanny."

his comment was immediately followed by the appearance of luke harwood, who came towards him with outstretched hand. with such a smile, too—radiantly disarming!

"congratulations, forge, old man!" he said. "a clinking idea, and a topping first number. how 'squat' you kept it, too—quite a refreshing surprise."

gripping harwood's hand hard, dick positively blushed.

"you like it, harwood?"

"rather! it's hot stuff. the real goods!"

"awfully sporting of you to say so, harwood, old man. you're the first to congratulate us. i say 'us', because cayton's as much an editor of the rag as i am. decent of harwood to give us such a send-off, isn't it, roger?"

"oh—ah—to be sure!" agreed roger, thinking something altogether different. (he would have preferred laughing sarcastically in the foxonian editor's bland face.)

"you've done it handsome, too—fine art paper, and all that," said harwood appreciatively. "always coveted a similar 'get-up' myself. never had the pluck to risk it, though. hope you'll get your subscriptions in all right."

"leave that to me," roger cut in, rather waspishly "i'm cashier."

harwood smilingly cleared off then, and nothing further happened till afternoon school ended. then, at roger's suggestion, the co-editors entered the study to talk matters over. it was a warm autumn evening, and a full moon kept the darkness at bay. consequently, the yard was thronged with boys, and through the study window, open at the top, it was possible at last to hear rooke's house rag being discussed.

"class one, i call it. a reamer," declared a fresh young voice, raised high, as if in challenge. "chews the ears off the foxonian—makes a grocer's sugar-bag of it, by comparison."

roger peered at dick over his spectacles. "hear that, my worthy editor?" he whispered. "the dulcet voice of robin arkness sings your praises. bravo, robin! whatever lead he takes his 'merry men' are bound to follow. we've a doughty champion there!"

sure enough, a chorus of approval followed. the rag was spiffing, top-hole, full of ginger, had the foxonian skinned a mile—of such a type were the compliments that flew about for a time, making sweet music for the co-editors' ears. then, as was perhaps inevitable, came the jarring note.

"all rot, seems to me, bringing out another school magazine," quoth a dissentient junior. "how many of you chaps who are cracking it up have bothered to read it? dull as ditchwater in my opinion, and half a crown a term thrown away."

"that's the leader of the fourth form opposition—young osbody from holbeck's house," explained roger. "impossible to take his criticism seriously. matter of creed with him to oppose whatever arkness says. listen—all the 'squirms' will back him up in slating us."

the title of "the squirms" had been invented by robin arkness for the discomfiture of his rivals, and was not, perhaps, unfair to them on the whole, as they seemed to have the unhappy knack of drawing to their side some of the least wholesome of foxenby's juniors. among the shortcomings of a few of them was a disregard for the laws of hygiene—in other words, a rooted dislike to soap and water. in the matter of personal cleanliness foxenby's reputation stood high, and the small minority who fell below the standard were deservedly unpopular.

the "squirms" justified roger's inference by shrilly attacking the rag—not because they had intelligent fault to find with it, but because they felt compelled to dissent from "robin hood's" views in any case. word-thrusts were given without mercy and taken without flinching. the merry men were accused of becoming subscribers only to curry favour with the captain; the merry men retaliated by declaring that fear of harwood's ash-stick prejudiced the squirms in the foxonian's favour. all these verbal fireworks would have gone off harmlessly but for the amazing conduct of one particular squirm, who, during a breath-taking lull, had the nerve to speak well of the rag.

"i say, all you chaps," he chimed in, "the foxonian's all right, of course, but you can't help admitting that rooke's house rag is a jolly sight better got up—first easily in quality of paper and style of printing!"

what a set-back for the squirms! the merry men uttered an ironical cheer at this falling away from the enemy's ranks, and osbody rounded furiously on his weak-kneed supporter. "shut up, mawdster, you ass!" he cried. "when you're asked for your opinion, give it—not sooner, unless it's a split lip you're seeking."

"oh, please, osbody," robin intervened, in mock terror, "don't split poor mawdster's lip. if you do he might have to wash his india-rubber collar before christmas!"

now, osbody himself being always irreproachable in tidiness, robin well knew that this exaggerated taunt would touch his rival's pride more than anything. but even robin was unprepared for the speed with which osbody leapt at him and hit him in the face. a rough-and-tumble in the "forest", well screened by tall evergreens, was a safe amusement compared with a free fight in the school-yard itself.

keeping cool, robin warded off osbody's blows without attempting to retaliate.

"don't be a loon, osbody," he said. "wanting to scrap here, right beneath the windows—it's a madman's trick. come and settle it in the 'forest'."

but feeling ran too high for compromise now. the swift attack on their chief had fired the blood of the merry men. each selected an antagonist and went for him, so that dick and roger, peeping cautiously through the curtains, were the uncomfortable witnesses of a pitched battle, of which their editorial venture was the primary cause.

"this is an advertisement we didn't bargain for, roger," said dick.

"hang it, yes! there'll be a miniature eruption of vesuvius if the old man hears of it. not another prefect about, of course."

"we must run downstairs and nip it in the bud, roger."

"most inconveniently for us. can't we lie 'doggo', dick?"

"indeed, no. it's up to us, old man. i've winked at these little donnybrooks in the shrubbery, but discipline goes overboard for 'keeps' if we let them paint one another's eyes beneath our windows."

"seems a pity to interfere when our side's getting the best of it!"

it was the voice of the tempter, but dick heeded it not.

"stay here, roger. no good both of us courting unpopularity," said dick, and roger, ever a failure as a disciplinarian, willingly remained behind. unseen himself, he watched the captain hop between the infuriated combatants.

"ease off, you hooligans!" forge said. "this is a school-yard, not a cockpit. boys of rooke's house will report to me at my study after tea. the rest of you will be reported to the head prefect of holbeck's house for—for" (he was about to say fighting, but withdrew it in favour of a softer term) "unseemly behaviour. no back talk, now, any of you; clear!"

the juniors scattered sulkily and formed up again in opposite corners of the yard. in the bright light of the moon dick watched them long enough to gather that his interference had not been taken philosophically. one merry man, of whose identity he was not certain, took out a copy of the rag and ostentatiously tore it up. it was whisked away by the warm wind to join other spurned copies in the bushes.

dick mounted the stairs slowly, sick with disappointment.

"so much for our literary ambition, roger, old pard," he groaned. "what sort of a kick-off do you call this? couldn't be rottener, in my opinion."

and roger, at a loss for words of consolation, savagely knocked a dictionary off the table.