wished to behave himself well, he could. On such occasions Sandford and
Merton were literally not in it with him, and the hero of a
Sunday-school story would simply have refused to compete. But Nemesis,
as the poets tell us, though no sprinter, manages, like the celebrated
Maisie, to get right there in time. Give her time, and she will arrive.
She arrived in the case of Harrison. One morning, about a fortnight
after the House-match incident, Harrison awoke with a new sensation. At
first he could not tell what exactly this sensation was, and being too
sleepy to discuss nice points of internal emotion with himself, was
just turning over with the intention of going to sleep again, when the
truth flashed upon him. The sensation he felt was loneliness, and the
reason he felt lonely was because he was the only occupant of the
dormitory. To right and left and all around were empty beds.

As he mused drowsily on these portents, the distant sound of a bell
came to his ears and completed the cure. It was the bell for chapel. He
dragged his watch from under his pillow, and looked at it with
consternation. Four minutes to seven. And chapel was at seven. Now
Harrison had been late for chapel before. It was not the thought of
missing the service that worried him. What really was serious was that
he had been late so many times before that Merevale had hinted at
serious steps to be taken if he were late again, or, at any rate, until
a considerable interval of punctuality had elapsed.

That threat had been uttered only yesterday, and here he was in all
probability late once more.

There was no time to dress. He sprang out of bed, passed a sponge over
his face as a concession to the decencies, and looked round for
something to cover his night-shirt, which, however suitable for