“No, we haven’t,” answered Mr. Gray, as his small eyes twinkled at the prospect of a little fun; “no, we haven’t.  Now, boys, of course a good many of you have played the game before.  But you, new boys, attend! the thing is this.  When I say three—­one, two, three!—­every body is to shout out the name of his sweet-heart.  The fun is that nobody hears any thing, because every body bawls so loud.  You see?” asked he, apparently feeling for his handkerchief.  “Gabriel, before we begin, just run into the study and get my handkerchief.”

Gabriel, full of expectation of the fun, ran out of the room.  The moment he closed the door Mr. Gray lifted his finger and said,

“Now, boys! every body remain perfectly quiet when I say three.”

It was needless to explain why, for every body saw the intended joke, and Gabriel returned instantly from the study saying that the handkerchief was not there.

“No matter,” said Mr. Gray.  “Are you all ready, boys.  Now, then—­one, two, three!”

As the word left Mr. Gray’s lips, Gabriel, candid, full of spirit, jumped up from his seat with the energy of his effort, and shouted out at the top of his voice,

“Hope Wayne!”

—­It was cruel.  That name alone broke the silence, ringing out in enthusiastic music.

Gabriel’s face instantly changed.  Still standing erect and dismayed, he looked rapidly around the room from boy to boy, and at Mr. Gray.  There was just a moment of utter silence, and then a loud peal of laughter.

Gabriel’s color came and went.  His heart winced, but not his eye.  Young hearts are tender, and a joke like this cuts deeply.  But just as he was about to yield, and drop the tell-tale tear of a sensitive, mortified boy, he caught the eye of Abel Newt.  It was calmly studying him as a Roman surgeon may have watched the gladiator in the arena, while his life-blood ebbed away.  Gabriel remembered Abel’s words in the play-ground—­“There’s more than one kind of fagging.”

When the laugh was over, Gabriel’s had been loudest of all.

CHAPTER VII.

CASTLE DANGEROUS.

The next day when school was dismissed, Abel asked leave to stroll out of bounds.  He pushed along the road, whistling cheerily, whipping the road-side grass and weeds with his little ratan, and all the while approaching the foot of the hill up which the road wound through the estate of Pinewood.  As he turned up the hill he walked more slowly, and presently stopped and leaned upon a pair of bars which guarded the entrance of one of Mr. Burt’s pastures.  He gazed for some time down into the rich green field that sloped away from the road toward a little bowery stream, but still whistled, as if he were looking into his mind rather than at the landscape.

After leaning and musing and vaguely whistling, he turned up the hill again and continued his walk.