ghastly face as the chaise whirled by him.

"Wo!" roared Mr. Spavin to the postboy, and the horses stopped in their
mad career, and the carriage pulled up some fifty yards before Pen. He
presently heard his own name shouted, and beheld the upper half of the
body of Mr. Spavin thrust out of the side-window of the vehicle, and
beckoning Pen vehemently towards it.

Pen stopped, hesitated--nodded his head fiercely, and pointed onwards, as
if desirous that the postillion should proceed. He did not speak: but his
countenance must have looked very desperate, for young Spavin, having
stared at him with an expression of blank alarm, jumped out of the
carriage presently, ran towards Pen holding out his hand, and grasping
Pen's, said, "I say--hullo, old boy, where are you going, and what's the
row now?"

"I'm going where I deserve to go," said Pen, with an imprecation.

"This ain't the way," said Mr. Spavin, smiling. "This is the Fenbury
road. I say, Pen, don't take on because you are plucked. It's nothing
when you are used to it. I've been plucked three times, old boy--and
after the first time I didn't care. Glad it's over, though. You'll have
better luck next time."

Pen looked at his early acquaintance,--who had been plucked, who had been
rusticated, who had only, after repeated failures, learned to read and
write correctly, and who, in spite of all these drawbacks, had attained
the honour of a degree. "This man has passed," he thought, "and I have
failed!" It was almost too much for him to bear.