Rollitt's clothes were wet and muddy; his hands and face were dirty with his scramble along the tree; his air was morose and savage, and his stride was such that the junior had to trot a step or two every few yards to keep up.

What would fellows think of him! Suppose Ranger were to see him, or, still worse, the Modern Wheatfield, or-- At this moment fate solved his problem.

For just ahead of him, turning the corner of Fowler's Wall, was the cadaverous individual who owed him half a crown.
"Oh, excuse me, Rollitt," said he, "there's a fellow there I want to speak to.

Good-bye." Rollitt did not appear either to hear the words or notice the desertion, but stalked on till he reached Wakefields'.

The house seemed to be empty.