Seven weeks later, the pervadence throughout the dormitory of an atmospheric effect more curious than pleasing led to the discovery that he had converted his box into a rabbit hutch.  Confronted with eleven kicking witnesses, and reminded of his former promises, he explained that rabbits were not mice, and seemed to consider that a new and vexatious regulation had been sprung upon him.  The rabbits were confiscated.  What was their ultimate fate, we never knew with certainty, but three days later we were given rabbit-pie for dinner.  To comfort him I endeavoured to assure him that these could not be his rabbits.  He, however, convinced that they were, cried steadily into his plate all the time that he was eating them, and afterwards, in the playground, had a stand-up fight with a fourth form boy who had requested a second helping.

That evening he performed another solemn oath-taking, and for the next month was the model boy of the school.  He read tracts, sent his spare pocket-money to assist in annoying the heathen, and subscribed to The Young Christian and The Weekly Rambler, an Evangelical Miscellany (whatever that may mean).  An undiluted course of this pernicious literature naturally created in him a desire towards the opposite extreme.  He suddenly dropped The Young Christian and The Weekly Rambler, and purchased penny dreadfuls; and taking no further interest in the welfare of the heathen, saved up and bought a second-hand revolver and a hundred cartridges.  His ambition, he confided to me, was to become “a dead shot,” and the marvel of it is that he did not succeed.

Of course, there followed the usual discovery and consequent trouble, the usual repentance and reformation, the usual determination to start a new life.

Poor fellow, he lived “starting a new life.”  Every New Year’s Day he would start a new life—­on his birthday—­on other people’s birthdays.  I fancy that, later on, when he came to know their importance, he extended the principle to quarter days.  “Tidying up, and starting afresh,” he always called it.

I think as a young man he was better than most of us.  But he lacked that great gift which is the distinguishing feature of the English-speaking race all the world over, the gift of hypocrisy.  He seemed incapable of doing the slightest thing without getting found out; a grave misfortune for a man to suffer from, this.

Dear simple-hearted fellow, it never occurred to him that he was as other men—­with, perhaps, a dash of straightforwardness added; he regarded himself as a monster of depravity.  One evening I found him in his chambers engaged upon his Sisyphean labour of “tidying up.”  A heap of letters, photographs, and bills lay before him.  He was tearing them up and throwing them into the fire.

I came towards him, but he stopped me.  “Don’t come near me,” he cried, “don’t touch me.  I’m not fit to shake hands with a decent man.”