“The Bishop’s Scholarship has been won by Freckleton,” said the Doctor.
Amazement, as well as approval, mingled with the applause which followed this most unexpected announcement.
“Which is Freckleton?” asked Dick of Swinstead, who sat in front.
“That dark fellow, talking to Mansfield.”
“Silence! Pledge was second, and within a few marks. Cartwright was third.”
“How pleased Winter must have been to find those marks the right way!” whispered Pledge, with the red spots on his cheeks, to Bull. “It’s a funny thing that Freckleton should be a nephew of Winter’s and yet just get the scholarship, isn’t it? So very unusual, eh?”
“The Fifth-form remove has been gained by Swinstead,” said the Doctor (loud cheers). “Wrangham was second, but not very close, and Birket was a few marks below Wrangham.”
These announcements were the most interesting on the Doctor’s list, and Templeton listened impatiently to the rest. It waited, however, in its place, in order to give a final cheer for Ponty at the close.
Which it did. And the dear old fellow, though he seemed very sleepy, and longed for his arm-chair, couldn’t help hearing it and looking round at the old school, nodding his kindly head. When, however, somebody called out “Speech,” he stretched himself comfortably and shrugged his shoulders; and they knew what that meant, and gave it up.
Twenty-four hours later, Templeton was scattered to the four winds, and our heroes’ first term had become a chapter of ancient history.