CHAPTER THREE.
HOW OUR HEROES GIRD ON THEIR ARMOUR.
Our heroes, each in the bosom of his own family, spent a somewhat anxious Easter holiday.
Of the three, Coote's prospects were decidedly the least cheery.
Mountjoy House without Richardson and Heathcote would be desolation itself, and the heart of our hero quailed within him as he thought of the long dull evenings and the dreary classes of the coming friendless term.
"Never mind, old man," Dick had said, cheerily, as the "Firm" talked their prospects over on the day before the holidays, "you're bound to scrape through the July exam.; and then won't we have a jollification when you turn up ?" But all this was sorry comfort for the dejected Coote, who retired home and spent half his holidays learning dates, so determined was he not to be "out of it" next time.
As for Heathcote and Richardson, they were neither of them without their perturbations of spirit.

Not that either of them realised--who ever does ?--the momentous epoch in their lives which had just arrived, when childhood like a pleasant familiar landscape lies behind, and the hill of life clouded in mist and haze rises before, all unknown and unexplored.
Heathcote, who was his grandmother's only joy, and had no nearer relatives, did hear some remarks to this effect as he girded himself for the coming campaign.

But he evaded them with an "Oh, yes, I know, all serene," and was far more interested in the prospect of a new Eton jacket and Sunday surplice than in a detailed examination of his past personal history.
The feeling uppermost in his mind was that Dick was going to Templeton too, and beyond that his anxieties and trepidations extended no further than the possibility of being called green by his new schoolfellows.
Richardson had the great advantage of being one of a real family circle.
He was the eldest of a large family, the heads of which feared God, and tried to train their children to become honest men and women.
How far they had succeeded with Dick, or--to give him his real Christian name, now we have him at home--with Basil, the reader may have already formed an opinion.

He had his faults--what boy hasn't ?--and he wasn't specially clever.

But he had pluck and hope, and resolution, and without being hopelessly conceited, had confidence enough in himself to carry him through most things.
"Don't be in too great a hurry to choose your friends, my boy," said his father, as the two walked up and down the London platform.