“Why should I?” asked Shag, raising his eyebrows.

“Boys,” said Locke, facing the room like a man, “we’ve been—­well, just cads.  And right here I propose that Shag Larocque read the address to His Excellency to-day.”

“And I second the motion,” said Shorty—­“second it heartily”; then he walked over to Shag.

“I’m not going to ask you to shake hands with me, Larocque,” he said; “I’ve been too much of a cad for that.  You must despise me too much to forgive me, despise me for my cowardice in not going with you to help Hal when he was drowning, despise me for my mean prejudices, despise me for—­oh, pshaw!  I ain’t fit to even ask you to forgive me.  I ain’t fit to even offer you my hand.”

“Hold on! hold on!” smiled Shag.  “There is nothing to despise in a chap who is big enough to offer an apology.  Here’s my hand, Shorty.  Will you take it at last?”

And Shorty took it.

A few hours later, just before Shag stepped out on the platform to read the address to His Excellency, he paid a flying visit to Hal, who, feeling much better, in fact quite on the mend, was sitting up in bed devouring toast and broth.

“Luck to you, old Shag,” he said between mouthfuls.

“Oh, Hal, you’ve been all the world to me,” was all he could reply.

“And you’ll be all the world to my dad and mother when they hear what you have done, fishing me out of the drink and saving my life.”  But Shorty shouting up the hall interrupted them.

“Come on, Shag,” he called; then, as he appeared in the doorway, he said bravely, “I haven’t been so happy for years; I’ve been a sneak and now that I say it I feel better.  Shag, there isn’t a boy living who I consider better fitted to represent this school than you.  Do you believe me?”

“I do believe you, and I thank you, Shorty, old chap,” said Shag happily, and linking arms they left Hal’s room together, for cheers outside were announcing the approach of Lord Mortimer—­and the feud was ended forever.

The King’s Coin

I

Because the doctor had forbidden Jack Cornwall to read a single line except by daylight, the boy was spending a series of most miserable evenings.  No books, no stories, no studies, for a severe cold had left him with an inflammation of the eyes; and, just as he was careering with all sorts of honors through the high school, he was ordered by the great oculist to drop everything, leave school, and—­“loaf.”

Young Cornwall hated “loafing.”  His brain and body loved activity.  He would far sooner have taken a sound flogging than all the idle hours that had been forced on him to endure.  To-night, particularly, time hung very heavy on his hands.  He sat for a full hour, his eyes shaded from the lamp, his hands locked round his knee, doing nothing, and finding it most difficult.  His father read the