Wilton School | Page 7

from its wonted corner, what
was his astonishment to see Egerton's crib lying there. As he was
making assurance doubly sure, that it really was the delectus-crib, he
felt a hand on his shoulder, and starting suddenly, found Mr Prichard
standing, looking over him into his desk.
"Give me your paper, Campbell," said Mr Prichard; "and that book!" he
added, sternly.
Harry's heart seemed to rise into his mouth. He was too frightened to
utter a word, but gave up the book immediately with his paper. The
whole affair had so astonished him that he scarcely knew whether he
stood on his head or his heels.
"Stay after school-prayers, Campbell," said Mr Prichard, as he passed
on, collecting the papers as he went.
Shortly after, the whole class rose, and many were the murmurs,
"Sneak! cribber!" that greeted Harry's burning ears as they all hurried
along towards the big schoolroom.

Poor boy! he felt in a sad strait, for he well knew how hard it would be
to clear himself. However, the consciousness of his innocence gave him
a brave heart. His mother had always told him that, no matter what the
consequences were, so long as his conscience told him he was in the
right, it was all well; and that seeming misfortunes would but work to
his final good.
Prayers over, Harry took up his position at Mr Prichard's desk. It so
happened no boys were kept in that evening, so the rest of the masters
were soon gone; but somehow or other the room did not clear so
speedily as usual. Harry's class especially was among the lingerers. The
report had soon spread through the school. And the boys (the younger
ones chiefly), always glad of a row when not themselves concerned,
stood peeping through the open doors.
"Leave the room at once, all of you," shouted Mr Prichard, "unless you
want an imposition?"
Waiting calmly and deliberately till the room was clear, and the doors
shut, while Harry longed, and yet dreaded for him to begin, Mr
Prichard turned and said--
"Well, Campbell, what have you to say for yourself? This morning, I
catch you in the act of copying, or attempting to copy, from Egerton's
paper; and, now, this afternoon, I find you with a book in your
possession, which, you know, you have no business whatever to have. I
suppose this will account for the correctness of your work during the
past half-year? Do you feel very proud of your performance," he added,
sneeringly, "when none of it was your own labour or cleverness?"
Meek-hearted Harry was in tears long before this oration was
concluded; and the streaming face and crimson blushes only tended to
confirm Mr Prichard's conviction of his guilt.
"Please, sir, I wasn't copying off Egerton this morning," sobbed Harry;
"I wasn't copying off him; and it isn't my book. It's--it's--it isn't mine,
sir!"

"It isn't yours, sir?" cried Mr Prichard, indignantly. "Have you the face
to contradict me flatly, sir, and say the book does not belong to you?
Whose name is that?" he cried, holding the delectus-translation, open at
its fly-leaf, to Harry.
And there plain enough it was--Harry Campbell.
"No, sir, no; it isn't mine," persisted Harry, through his tears. "It isn't
mine. I never saw it till this morning."
"You are only adding to your wrong conduct, Campbell," said Mr
Prichard very gravely. "It is bad enough for you to take unfair
advantage of your school-fellows; but you make the whole matter ten
times worse by telling a deliberate falsehood. The book is yours. Your
name is in it."
In vain Harry protested his innocence; Mr Prichard remained
inexorable.
"You will come with me to Dr Palmer to-morrow," and putting the
book into his pocket, he stalked from the room.
CHAPTER VII.
A BOY FIGHT AT SCHOOL.
Lynch law--At bay--Bully Warburton--Single combat--The deciding
round--Harry is victorious.
If Harry felt heavy-hearted when he started for home that afternoon,
what must he have felt now? Deeper than ever he was plunged in the
trouble from which he knew not how to extricate himself. His thoughts,
however, soon flew to his mother. He knew that there he would find
comfort, that there, at least, he would be believed. So carefully wiping
away all traces of his tears, and putting on as brave a face as he could,
he strapped his books together, and ran down the broad stone stairs into
the lobby.

For some time, however, he could not find his cap. It did not need
much reflection to tell him what this meant or foreboded. It was the
beginning of persecution. But after rumaging about among the boxes
kept in the lobby, his patience was at length rewarded. There, in a
corner, was the missing cap; but torn and dirty and much