At the time our story opens, the school was in a very flourishing condition.  It contained about eighty boys, the tutors were men of unquestionable ability, and so successful had the Doctor been in turning out good scholars that he had applications from various parts of England, in which country our story is located, for the admission of many more boys than he could possibly receive.

Among the institutions of the school was a weekly reception in the Doctor’s private drawing-room, when twenty boys at a time were invited to tea, and to spend the evening hours in social enjoyment.

It was a very good thing, for it gave Mrs. Brier an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the boys, and it enabled them to see the Doctor, not in his professional character of principal, but as a kind and gentle host.

At some schools, where a plan of this kind has been adopted, boys have been inclined to look upon it as a great bore, and have dreaded the return of the so-called social evening, when they would have to be, for some hours, in a state of nervous anxiety, lest they should be catechised in a corner, or be betrayed into something that they would be sorry for afterward.

But, with one exception, this was not the case with the Blackrock boys; the Tuesday reception was always a red-letter day with them, and if ever, through misbehavior, an invitation was withheld, it was regarded as one of the severest punishments inflicted in the school.

Several boys were one day standing in a group under the elms which inclosed the play-ground, putting on their jackets to return to the school-room, as the recreation hour was nearly over.

“Who’s going to the house on Tuesday?” asked Howard Pemberton.

“I am,” said Martin Venables.

“And I,” added Alick Fraser.

“And I too, worse luck,” said Digby Morton.

“Why worse luck?” asked Martin.

“Oh, it wouldn’t do for me to enter into particulars with you,” replied Digby, rather testily.  “You’re the Doctor’s nephew, and we all know that we’ve got to be careful of what we say about the house before you.  The wind might carry it around.”

Martin turned as red as a poppy, as he flashed up in honest anger that such paltry meanness should be charged on him.

“I tell you what it is, Digby,” he said, trying to keep himself cool, “I can stand a joke as well as anybody, but there is no joking about your ill-natured speeches.  I tell you now, once for all, that I never did and never shall blow upon any boy in this school.  You know as well as I do that the Doctor treats me as a scholar here, and not as a spy or a relative, and if ever you charge me again with tale-bearing, I’ll answer you with my fists.”

“Good!” cried several voices at once, while some of the small boys who had gathered round seemed delighted at the rebuke administered to Digby, who was by no means a favorite with them.