Follow My Leader | Page 3

young gentlemen," said Tom, grinning. "Mind what you're up to in them 'saminations."
With which parting sally our heroes found themselves alone, with their faces towards Templeton.
To any wayfarers less overwhelmed with care, that mile walk from Markridge to Templeton over the breezy downs, with the fresh sea air meeting you, with the musical hum of the waves on the beach below, and the glimmer of the spring sun on the ocean far ahead, would have been bracing and inspiriting. As it was, it was not without its attractions even for the three boys; for did they not stand on the precincts of that enchanted ground occupied and glorified by the heroes of Templeton? Was not this very road along which they walked a highway along which Templeton walked, or peradventure raced, or it may be bicycled? Were not these downs the hunting-ground over which the Templeton Harriers coursed in chase of the Templeton hares? Was not that square tower ahead the very citadel of their fortress? and that distant bell that tolled, was it not a voice which spoke to Templeton in tones of familiar fellowship every hour?
They trembled as they heard that bell and came nearer and nearer to the grand square tower. They eyed furtively everyone who passed them on the road, and imagined every man a master and every boy a Templetonian.
A shop with "mortar-boards" displayed in its window seemed like a temple crowded with shrines; and a confectioner's shop, in which two young gentlemen in gowns sat and refreshed themselves, was like a distant glimpse of Olympus where the gods banqueted.
A boy with a towel over his shoulder lounged past them, and surveyed them listlessly as he went by.
How they cowered and trembled beneath that scrutiny! How they dreaded lest their jackets might be too long, or that the studs in their shirts might not be visible! How they hated themselves for blushing, and wished to goodness they knew what to do with their hands!
How their legs shook beneath them as they came under the shadow of the great tower and looked nervously for the porter's lodge! They would have liked to look as if they knew the place; it seemed so foolish to have to ask any one where the porter lived.
"Just go and see if it's up that passage," said Richardson to Coote, pointing out a narrow opening on one side of the tower.
Coote looked at the place doubtfully.
"Hadn't we better all try?" said he.
"What's the good? Beckon if it's right, and we'll come."
The unfortunate Coote departed on his quest much as a man who walks into a cave where a bear possibly resides.
His companions meanwhile occupied themselves with examining the gateway and trying to appear as if architectural curiosity and nothing else had been the object of their passing visit to Templeton.
In a few minutes Coote reappeared with a long face.
"Well? is it right?"
"No; it's a dust-bin."
The great clock above them began to boom out ten.
"We must find out somehow," said Richardson. "We'd better ask at this door."
And, to the alarm of his companions, he boldly tapped on a door under the gate.
A man in uniform opened it.
"Well, young gentlemen, what's your pleasure?"
"Please can you tell us where the porter's lodge is?" said Richardson, in his most persuasive tone.
"I can. I'm the porter, and this is the lodge. What do you want?"
"Please we're Mr Ashford's boys, come for the examination. Here's a note from Mr Ashford for Dr Winter."
The porter took the note, and bade the panic-stricken trio follow him across the quadrangle.
What a walk that was! Across that noble square, with its two great elm- trees laden with noisy rooks; with its wide-fenced lawn and sun-dial; with its cloisters and red brick houses; with its sculptures and Latin mottoes.
And even all these were as nothing to the few boys who loitered about in its enclosure--some pacing arm-in-arm, some hurrying with books under their arms, some diverting themselves more or less noisily, some shouting or whistling or singing--all at home in the place; and all unlike the three trembling victims who trotted in the wake of the porter towards the dreadful hall of examination.
At the door, Richardson felt a frantic clutch on his arm.
"Oh! I say, Dick," gasped Coote, holding out a shaking ringer, with a legend on its nail, "whatever is this the date for--1476? I put it down, and-- Oh! I say, can't you remember?"
But Richardson, though he scorned to show it, was too agitated even to suggest an event to fit the disconsolate date, and poor Coote had to totter up the stairs, hopelessly convinced that he had nothing at his fingers' ends after all.
They found themselves walking up a long, high-ceilinged room, with desks all round and a few very appalling oil portraits ranged along the walls, to a