I've a good mind to send your name up to Westover." "I'm awfully sorry," began Heathcote; "no one told me--" "I've told you; and if you don't go at once Westover shall hear of it." The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted.

Not even Aspinall was there; and for a moment Heathcote began again vaguely to suspect a plot.
From this delusion, he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room, and demanded.
"Look here; what are you up to here ?" "I was--that is, I was told to go to bed," said Heathcote.
"Well, and if you were, what business have you got here?
Go to your own den." "This is where I slept last night," said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied.
"You did! Like your howling cheek." "Where is my bed room then ?" asked Heathcote.
"Why didn't you ask the matron?
I'm not going to fag for you.

There, in that second door; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the Fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines." Heathcote whipped up his night-gown and made precipitately for the door, finally convinced that he was in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career.
The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship's cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could, in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably.

The thought of the 200 lines, certainly, was unpleasant.

But "sufficient unto the day," thought the philosophic Heathcote.