The Cock-House at Fellsgarth | Page 5

one in particular owned the object in question.
"What are you?" asked the prefect.
"I'm Fisher minor; I got under the table, somehow."
"So I should suppose. Afraid of the draughts, I suppose."
"It was Wally and his brother put me there. I didn't mean--"
"Oh--Wally, was it? Here, young Wheatfield, you shouldn't leave your
property about like this. It's against rules. Here, hook on, and don't go
chucking it about any more."

"All serene," said the twin. "Come along, kid. Done with my comb?
You look ever so much better form now; doesn't he, you chaps? How
came you to lose your way downstairs?"
Fisher minor owned himself utterly unable to account for the
misadventure, and discreetly remained silent until the signal was given
to return thanks and separate every boy to his own house.
As he was wandering across the court, very dismal and apprehensive of
what more was in store for him, a lean youth with a pale face and very
showily attired accosted him.
"Hullo, kid, are you a new chap?"
"Yes," replied Fisher minor, eyeing the stranger suspiciously.
"What side are you on?"
Fisher stared interrogatively.
"Well, then, are you Modern or Classic?"
"I don't know, really," said Fisher minor, wishing he knew which he
ought to proclaim himself. Then making a bold venture, he said, "I
believe Modern."
"Good job for you," said the youth; "saves me the trouble of kicking
you. Can you lend me a bob? I'll give it you back to-morrow as soon as
I've unpacked."
It did strike Fisher minor as queer that any one should pack shillings up
in a trunk, but he was too pleased to oblige this important and
fashionable-looking personage to raise any question.
"Yes. Can you give me change out of a half-crown? Or you can pay me
the lot back to-morrow, I shan't be wanting it till then," said he.
"All serene, kid; I'm glad you are our side. I shall be able to give you a
leg-up with the fellows. Whose house are you in?"

"Wakefield's, the same as my brother."
"What--then you must be a Classic! They're all Classics at Wakefield's.
Why can't you tell the truth when you're asked, instead of a howling
pack of lies?"
"I didn't know, really, I thought--"
"Come, that's a good one. Any idiot knows what side he's on at
Fellsgarth."
Fisher minor was greatly confused to stand convicted thus of
greenness.
"You see," said he, putting on a little "side" to cover his shame, "I was
bound to be stuck on the same side as my brother, you know."
"Nice for you. Not a gentleman among them. All paupers and prigs,"
said this young Modern, waxing eloquent. "You'll suit them down to
the ground." Considering that Fisher minor had just lent the speaker
half a crown, these taunts struck him as not exactly grateful. At the
same time he writhed under the reproach, and felt convinced that
Classics were not at all the "form" at Fellsgarth.
"Why," pursued the other, pocketing his coin in order to release his
hands for a little elocution, "we could boy 'em up twice over. The
workhouse isn't in it with Wakefield's. There's not a day but they come
cadging to us, wanting to borrow our tin, or our grub, or something.
There, look at that chap going across there! He's one of 'em. Regular
casual-ward form about him. He's the meanest, stingiest lout in all
Fellsgarth."
"Why," exclaimed Fisher minor, looking in alarm towards this prodigy
of baseness, "why, that's--that's Fisher, my brother!"
The Modern youth's jaw fell with a snap, and his cheeks lost what little
colour they had.

"What? Why didn't you tell me! Look here, you needn't tell him what I
said. It was quite between ourselves, you know. I must be cutting, I say.
See you again some day."
And he vanished, leaving Fisher minor considerably more bewildered,
and poorer by a cool half-crown, than he had been five minutes ago.
CHAPTER TWO.
LAMB'S SINGING.
Wakefield's house, as Fisher minor entered it under his brother's wing,
hardly seemed to the new boy as disreputable a haunt as his recent
Modern friend had led him to expect. Nor did the sixty or seventy
fellows who clustered in the common room strike him as exactly the
lowest stratum of Fellsgarth society. Yorke, the captain, for instance,
with his serene, well-cut face, his broad shoulders and impressive voice
hardly answered to the description of a lout. Nor did Ranger, of the
long legs, with speed written in every inch of his athletic figure, and
gentleman in every line of his face, look the sort of fellow to be
mistaken for a cad. Even Fisher major, about whom the younger
brother had been made to feel decided qualms, could hardly have been