“Hullo! I say, look here, Wraysford,” said the beaming Stephen, “I’m going to cut Loman and fag for you. Isn’t it jolly?”
“Depends on whether I have you. I don’t want any Guinea-pigs in my study, mind.”
Stephen’s face fell. For even such a privilege as fagging for Wraysford he could not afford to sever the sacred ties which held him to the fellowship of the Guinea-pigs. “I really wouldn’t kick-up shines,” said he, imploringly.
“You’d be a queer Guinea-pig if you didn’t!” was the flattering answer. “And how many times a week would you go on strike, eh?”
“Oh!” said Stephen, “I’ll never go on strike again; I don’t like it.”
The two friends laughed at this ingenuous admission, and then Wraysford said, “Well, I’ll have you; but mind, I’m awfully particular, and knock my fags about tremendously, don’t I, Noll?”
“I don’t mind that,” said the delighted Stephen. “Besides, you’ve not had a fag to knock about!”
At that moment, however, the bell for morning chapel cut short all further talk for the present. Stephen obeyed its summons for once in a subdued and thankful frame of mind. Too often had those weekly services been to him occasions of mere empty form, when with his head full of school worries or school fun he had scarcely heard, much less heeded, what was said.
To-day, however, it was different. Stephen was a sobered boy. He had passed through perils and temptations from which, if he had escaped, it had been through no merit of his own. Things might have been far different. His life had been saved, so had his peace of mind, and now even the consequences of old transgressions had been lightened for him. What had he done to deserve all this?
This was the question which the boy humbly asked himself as he entered the chapel that morning, and the Doctor’s sermon fitted well with his altered frame of mind.