"Well, thirdly and lastly: Don't you think it will be better to keep what we know up our sleeves for the present, in view of what may come after?"
"You're right, Paul, as you always are!" exclaimed Stanley enthusiastically.
"No, old fellow, there is only One who is always right," answered Paul earnestly. "We're always patting ourselves on the back and fancying ourselves mighty clever; but we're not. We're asses—always slipping and tumbling about, and when not doing that, running down the wrong road and butting our stupid heads against posts or walls. Asses, all of us—some big, some little."
"Where do you come in, Paul?" laughed Stanley.
"Amongst the mediums," Paul laughed back; but as he turned towards the school his face grew grave again. He had tried to reason things out, but the way before him did not seem so clear as he could have wished. There were pitfalls before him, into one of which he might stumble at any moment. And as he thought there came to him the lines of a hymn he had often heard his mother sing:
"Lord, bring me to resign
My doubting heart to Thee;
And, whether cheerful or distressed,
Thine, Thine alone to be.
My only aim be this—
Thy purpose to fulfil,
In Thee rejoice with all my strength,
And do Thy Holy will."
Entering the school, he sought out Hasluck, head of the Fifth. He was a quiet, studious boy, with glasses. He did not take a very prominent part in the sports, but none the less he was keen on the honour of his form, inside or outside the school.
"I want you to call a meeting of the Form, Hasluck—to-night."
"What about?"
"A little matter between Newall, Moncrief, and me. It touches the honour of the Form."