CHAPTER VI.

HOW YOUNG NICK KEPT HIS SECRET.

THE Consciousness of possessing all to himself so great a secret gave young Nick a sense of superior importance most enjoyable. He hugged it to his bosom, took it to bed with him, dreamed of it, never let it go out of his thoughts. His mother observed with some alarm that her son was changed during those days. He was sobered; he carried himself responsibly; his white eyebrows were charged with a burden of duty.

The change was certainly for the better, but she looked for some physical cause to

account for his sudden abandonment of those impish moods which had once kept her in continual alarm. It might be impending measles; in fact, the boy was completely weighed down by his knowledge. The writing-master of Jubilee Road was too much in his mind. Whenever he saw Alison he thought of him; if he went out of the town he reflected that the Clapham Road, followed due north, leads to London Bridge, and that from London Bridge to Jubilee Road is but a step; if he came home, he passed the door of his uncle's study, and involuntarily compared the mean lodging at the East End with that stately room; if he heard his mother lamenting the wickedness of Stephen, he chuckled, thinking how that wicked man would be, and should be, some day brought to shame, and his wiles defeated; if he heard Alison whispering despondently that nothing had been as yet

discovered, he rubbed his hands together and laughed inwardly, winking both eyes alternately, as he thought of what he himself had discovered; if he contemplated his own future prospects, his thoughts turned to the refugee whose return was to mark the commencement of his own fortunes.

The thing was overwhelming. All day he pondered over it, now with exultation, now with anxiety. His performances at school grew every day more lamentable; the subjunctive mood ceased to interest him, and he neglected the past participle; even the things which would certainly become of real use to him when he had his desk in Great St. Simon Apostle, his arithmetic, his French, his handwriting, became irksome. For as the weary hours of work crept on, his mind was always away in that dingy house of Jubilee Road, and his

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thoughts were always turning to the Great Secret.

How was it to be disclosed in the most useful and, at the same time, the most striking manner? Suppose someone else, a clerk in the house, for instance, should find out the writing-master of Jubilee Road. His uncle, Nicolas reflected with severity, was extremely thoughtless; he might even, on a Saturday half-holiday, stroll as far west as the entrance to the docks, and there be observed by the policemen at the doors, and then all his own share in the discovery would be actually fooled away.

These were difficult and interesting problems, but they were too much for the young brain. While Nicolas thought them over, which was all day long, in school and out, the book before him became a blank page; the common he wandered over, as lonely as any Robinson

Crusoe, was as if it did not exist; the shouts of the boys at play, or the hum of the boys at work, fell on deaf ears. His school performances during this period were in the monthly report described as disgraceful. He cared nothing about Cæsar's triumphs in Gaul; he could not be roused to any interest in any subject whatever; the ceaseless admonitions of his masters produced no more effect than the lowing of distant cattle; if Cridland was called, Cridland had to be jogged by his nearest neighbour; if Cridland was asked a question, his reply betrayed not only ignorance of the subject, but gross inattention. The consequences were inevitable.

Must one go on? At that school they caned, but only in cases of continued inattention and idleness.

When the patience of the authorities was quite exhausted, Cridland received orders