It would be difficult to put my case in a favourable light, and I was quite sure my mother could not help me out of my difficulty.
I solemnly burned my crib that night in the parlour fire, after every one was in bed.

It took ages to consume, and nearly set the chimney on fire in the operation.

But when that was done I was as far off a solution of my difficulty as ever.
I hardly slept a wink, and in the morning my mother added to my discomfort by remarking on my looks.
"You're working too hard, dear boy," said she.

"I must ask Miss Steele to give you a little holiday, or you'll be quite knocked up." "Please don't," said I.

"I'm all right." Here the postman's knock caused a diversion.
"A letter for you, Tommy," said my mother.
It was from Tempest, of all people--the first he had condescended to write me since we had parted company in Plummer's hall nearly a year ago.
It was a rambling, patronising effusion, in his usual style; but every word of it, in my present plight, had a sting for me.
"It's a pity you're not here," wrote he; "it's a ripping place.
Everything about the place is ripping except the drilling master and the dumplings on Mondays, which are both as vile as vile can be.