The week passed, and Buller again went over with Dr Jolliffe to Mr Elliot’s house at Penredding, Mr Rabbits this time accompanying him. The frost still held, and the boys went skating.
I have said that there was no recognised system of fagging at Weston; yet, when a fellow in the head-master’s class told a boy in the lowest form to do anything, why, it so happened that he generally did it. So, when Crawley observed:
“There’s a beautiful bit of smooth ice under here. I say, you two, Penryhn and Simmonds, suppose you take those brooms and clear a bit of it.”
Penryhn and Simmonds acted on the suggestion. After clearing some twenty square yards of beautiful black ice, Simmonds turned up something hard, which he picked up and invoked Jupiter.
“What is it?” asked Penryhn.
“Findings, keepings,” responded Simmonds.
“Let’s look,” said Penryhn. “Why, that is Buller’s knife!”
“Ah, ah! how do you know that?”
“Why, it has a punch in it; he lent it me to punch a hole in my strap when we got home from skating one day. It has his name engraved upon it somewhere; there it is, look, on that plate—‘T. Buller’.”
“Like my luck!” sighed Simmonds; “I never found anything yet but what it belonged to some other fellow.”