"A sign who you are
thinking of, mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle turned scarlet. "You know I meant to say Arthur, stupid
boy! It's a crying wrong, Harry, upon Tom Channing. Looking at it in
the worst light, _he_ has been guilty of nothing to forfeit his right.
If you can help him to the seniorship instead of supplanting him, be a
brave boy, and do it. God sees all things."
"I shall be late, as sure as a gun!" impatiently returned Harry. And
away he sped through the rain and mud, never slackening speed till he
was in the college schoolroom.
He hung up his trencher, flung his surplice on to a bench, and went
straight up, with outstretched hand, to Tom Channing, who stood as
senior, unfolding the roll. "Good luck to you, old fellow!" cried he,
in a clear voice, that rang through the spacious room. "I hope, with
all my heart, that you'll be in this post for many a day."
"Thank you, Huntley," responded Tom. And he proceeded to call over the
roll, though his cheek burnt at sundry hisses that came, in subdued
tones, from various parts of the room.
Every boy was present. Not a king's scholar but answered to his name;
and Tom signed the roll for the first time. "Channing, acting senior."
Not "Channing, senior," yet. It was a whim of Mr. Pye's that on Sundays
and saints' day--that is, whenever the king's scholars had to attend
service--the senior boy should sign the roll.
They then put on their surplices; and rather damp surplices some of
them were.
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