With these words the headmaster swept out of the room.

The boys dispersed in whispering groups.  Gordon, Smith, and Hart minor, when they attempted to speak, were met with stony silence; they were boycotted and cut by the remaining boys.

Gordon and Smith slept in two adjoining cubicles, and in a third adjoining cubicle was an upper division boy called Worthing.  That night, after they had gone to bed, Gordon asked Worthing whether, among all the guilty, one just man had not been found.

“Surely,” he said, “Campbell minor, who put up the score during the cricket match, was attentive right through the game, and wouldn’t he be allowed to go to the New Forest with the eleven?”

“No,” said Worthing, “he whistled twice.”

“Oh!” said Gordon, “I didn’t know that.  Of course, he can’t go!”

THE SHADOW OF A MIDNIGHT A GHOST STORY

It was nine o’clock in the evening.  Sasha, the maid, had brought in the samovar and placed it at the head of the long table.  Marie Nikolaevna, our hostess, poured out the tea.  Her husband was playing Vindt with his daughter, the doctor, and his son-in-law in another corner of the room.  And Jameson, who had just finished his Russian lesson—­he was working for the Civil Service examination—­was reading the last number of the Rouskoe Slovo.

“Have you found anything interesting, Frantz Frantzovitch?” said Marie Nikolaevna to Jameson, as she handed him a glass of tea.

“Yes, I have,” answered the Englishman, looking up.  His eyes had a clear dreaminess about them, which generally belongs only to fanatics or visionaries, and I had no reason to believe that Jameson, who seemed to be common sense personified, was either one or the other.  “At least,” he continued, “it interests me.  And it’s odd—­very odd.”

“What is it?” asked Marie Nikolaevna.

“Well, to tell you what it is would mean a long story which you wouldn’t believe,” said Jameson; “only it’s odd—­very odd.”

“Tell us the story,” I said.

“As you won’t believe a word of it,” Jameson repeated, “it’s not much use my telling it.”

We insisted on hearing the story, so Jameson lit a cigarette, and began:—­

“Two years ago,” he said, “I was at Heidelberg, at the University, and I made friends with a young fellow called Braun.  His parents were German, but he had lived five or six years in America, and he was practically an American.  I made his acquaintance by chance at a lecture, when I first arrived, and he helped me in a number of ways.  He was an energetic and kind-hearted fellow, and we became great friends.  He was a student, but he did not belong to any Korps or Bursenschaft, he was working hard then.  Afterwards he became an engineer.  When the summer Semester came to an end, we both stayed on at Heidelberg.  One day Braun suggested that we should go for a walking