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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Silence!" cried the master. "What do you mean, Pilson? is your coat burnt?" "Yes, sir." "Very well, Fenleigh; I shall give you five hundred lines." Valentine, who had been an unoffending spectator of the affair, was fairly staggered at suddenly hearing himself commissioned to write five hundred lines.
"Well, I thought perhaps you'd think I was a sneak if I didn't. I'm afraid you'll get the sack," continued Rosher sadly. "It was awfully good of you, Fenleigh, not to split; you always were a brick. I say, we were rather chummy when you first came, if you remember; and then we had a bit of a row. I suppose it don't matter now. If you like, I'll write you when you get home."
They were strolling back to the school one afternoon, and had got within twenty yards of the main entrance, when some one hurrying along behind them touched Jack on the shoulder, and looking round they found themselves once more confronted by the same shabby-looking man who had accosted them on a previous occasion. "Beg pardon, Mr. Fenleigh," he began. "I'm Ned Hanks; you'll remember, sir.
"I could tell him anywheres in a moment." "Fenleigh, were you at the fair last night?" "Yes, sir." "What were you doing there? You know my orders?" The boy was silent. "I can tell you what he was doing," interrupted the man. "He knocked over one of my lamps and set my screen afire; and a'ter that he started fightin', and I was obliged to fetch a p'liceman.
No punishment had been mentioned, but in the school traditions the little music-room was looked upon as a sort of condemned cell. Every one knew the subsequent fate of boys who had been sent there on previous occasions; and in a short time the news was in everybody's mouth that Fenleigh J. was going to be expelled.
At the back of the room every one of the half-dozen visitors sat, or rather sprawled, with his head upon the desk, in an attitude suggestive of the soundest slumber; the only variation in position being on the part of Jack Fenleigh, who lay back with a handkerchief thrown over his face like an old gentleman taking his after-dinner nap.
There was a subdued titter from the adjacent beds. "Silence!" cried Mr. Rowlands. "So you're responsible for this noise and disorder, Fenleigh? If you want to perform as a clown, you had better leave school and join a circus. At nine o'clock to-morrow you will come with me to the headmaster's study."
"'I believe I must go out into the world again, said the duckling." The Ugly Duckling. The summers came and went, but Jack Fenleigh remained a rebel, refusing to join the annual gathering at Brenlands, and to pay his homage at the court of Queen Mab.
"I've lately returned from Egypt, and saw there your nephew, Lieutenant Fenleigh, of the sex Regiment." He tried to say "ma'am," but even at that moment it seemed too great a mockery, and the word choked him. "I was with him when he died on the banks of the Nile. He asked me to bring you this, and to give it to you with my own hands."
The party at Brenlands had waited in vain for a reply to their letters. Within a week, Miss Fenleigh had written again, assuring the runaway that neither she nor his cousins for one moment suspected him of having stolen the watch; but in the meantime the mischief had been done. "They think I did it," muttered Jack to himself, "or they'd have written at once.
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