The Greyfnars Chinee

A Splendid Complete School Tale of Harry Wharton & Co.
by Frank Richards [Charles Hamilton].

Originally published in The Magnet Library (Amalgamated Press, Ltd.) vol.2 #37 (24 Oct 1908).

The First Chapter.

Wun Lung Does Not Understand.

Billy Bunter was stooping before the fire in Study No. 1 in the Remove, with a fork in his hand and a crimson glow upon his fat face.
        There was a sizzle and a savory smell in the study. Billy Bunter was frying sausages—a thing he could do to perfection, and which he thoroughly enjoyed. Bunter was never happier than when he was cooking, except, of course, when he was eating.
        He was far too busily occupied to notice that the study door quietly opened, and that a face looked inquiringly in. It was a curious face—a little face with a deep olive skin inclining to yellow, oblique eyes, and an expression of innocent curiousity. A head adorned only by a pigtail.
        It was the face of Wun Lung, the Chinee, the new boy in the Greyfriars Remove. He looked into an the study, and sniffed the scent of frying sausages, and came softly in. Wun Lung had a cat-like tread. Billy Bunter, quite unconscious of his presence, rose with a sigh, and took the frying-pan off the fire.
        "Done to a turn!" he murmured. "I don't think I ever saw sausages so really beautifully done before. If those fellows don't come in I shall scoff the lot myself. They oughtn't to be late for tea, when I've taken so much trouble."
        Bunter stepped back from the grate, and gave a jump as he knocked against the Chinese boy. He turned quickly round.
        "I say, you fellows, you startled me! You shouldn't come in so quietly. Why—who—what do you want?"
        Billy Bunter blinked in amazement through his big spectacles at the unexpected visitor.
        The Chinee smiled sweetly.
        "Me Wun Lung," was all he offered in the way of explanation.
        "Yes, I know you're Wun Lung," said Bunter. "But what I want to know is, what do you want here?"
        The Chinee mach a gesture towards the frying-pan.
        "Wun Lung hungly."
        Bunter blinked indignantly at the new boy.
        "Well, of all the cheek," he said, "of all the nerve! Fancy a giddy heathen inviting himself to tea in a fellow's study! You'd better bunk!"
        "No savvy."
        "Bunk!" said Billy Bunter, pointing to the door with his frying-pan. "Skedaddle! Get out!"
        The Celestial shook his head slowly, as if not comprehending.
        "No savvy."
        "I'll wager you could savvy if you wanted to," said Bunter. "But if you don't understand plain English, and as I can't talk Chinese, I shall have to proceed to demonstration."
        "No savvy."
        "See if you can savvy this!" grinned Bunter; and he took the Celestial by the pigtail, and drew him forcibly to the door. "There, that's the door! There's the passage! You travel! Bunk! Slide! Be off! Absquatulate!"
        "No savvy."
        "My only hat!" exclaimed the exasperated Bunter. "I'll teach you to savvy, if I have to bump your head against the wall! What study are you in—Russell's, isn't it"
        The Chinese boy nodded.
        "Then come along; I'll see you home."
        Billy Bunter led the new boy along the passage, by his pigtail, to the door of Russell's study. Wun Lung made no resistance. The meekness and mildness of his manners would have done credit to the curate of the Bab Ballads. Bunter opened the door, and jerked Wun Lung into the study. Then he wagged a fat fore Finger at him warningly.
        "You stay there," he said. "That's your place. You stay there."
        He closed the door, and returned to No. 1. In the attractive occupation of turning the sausages out into a dish, and taking a snack to go on with while he waited on the other fellows to come, Billy Bunter forgot all about the Chinese boy. The tea-table was laid in Study No. 1, and the teapot was warming in the grate. All was ready for the evening meal, but the chums of the Remove had not yet made their appearance. The October evenings and drawing in so much that there was nothing to be done out of doors after tea, and the Removites made the most they could of what daylight they had after afternoon school. Billy Bunter could not understand it in the least, but Harry Wharton & Co. placed football practice before even meals in their estimation. Even the fried sausages would not draw and them indoors while light remained.
        "Well, it's all ready," murmured Billy Bunter. "I suppose I had better not make the tea till they come. The kettle's boiling. I wish they'd come. I know I shall bolt all the sausages if they don't turn up pretty soon."
        Bunter stepped back from the fire. There was a light footstep in the study, and he looked round.
        "Is that you, Wharton? Why, it's that confounded heathen again!"
        Billy Bunter blinked wrathfully at the Chinese boy. Wun Lung smiled blandly, and crossed to the tea-table, and sat down. Bunter watched him in speechless indignation. He drew a plate before him, and picked up a fork. He was about to help himself to the sausages when Billy rushed forward.
        "Hold on, you young ass!"
        Wun Lung looked at him innocently.
        "Me likee sausage."
        "I dare say you do!" grunted Billy Bunter. "But you'll have to wait till I ask you to tea before you feed on my sausages. Travel!"
        "No savvy."
        "Get off that chair!"
        "No savvy."
        "Look here, I shall sling you out if you don't go."
        "No savvy."
        Bunter grasped the Chinese boy by the shoulders, and jerked him off the chair. The next moment Bunter was sitting on the carpet, blinking dazedly. How he had got there he had not the faintest idea. Wun Lung was sitting at the table, helping himself to sausages. It seemed impossible that that slim, bland, smiling youth could have sat the fat junior down so easily, apparently without an effort. Bunter blinked at him in utter, blank, amazement.
        "Hallo, hallo, hallo!" said a cheerful voice at the door. "Do you find the floor more comfy than a chair, Billy? I didn't know you had visitors."
        It was Bob Cherry. He came in, looking curiously at the Chinee. Billy Bunter staggered to his feet.
        "I—I haven't visitors!" he gasped "That cheeky young villain has come in of his own accord, and started bolting the sausages. I've chucked him out once, and I was going to chuck him out again, when—when my foot slipped, and I fell down."
        Bob Cherry fastened a grip upon the back of the Celestial's collar, and lifted him bodily out of the chair, and set him on his feet. Wun Lung looked at him with a disarming smile. Bob Cherry led him to the door.
        "Get out," he said concisely.
        "No savvy."
        "That's what he says," growled Billy Bunter. "I know jolly well that he savvies anything he wants to savvy."
        "You goee out," explained Bob Cherry, in the nearest approach he could make, on the spur of the moment, to the "pidgin English" of Wun Lung. "You bunkee, jolly quick. You scootee, or I kickee—kickee jolly hard. Savvy?"
        Apparently Wun Lung savvied for once. He could understand an upraised football boot, at all invents. He scuttled along the passage like a rabbit. Bob Cherry turned back into the study with a laugh.
        "Funny little beggar!" he remarked. "He seems to have taken a fancy to this study. He would have been put in here if we'd had room, but we're five already."
        "That's too many," said Bunter. "I know they have six in some of the Remove studies, but I should object."
        "I don't suppose the Head would pay very much attention to your objections if he decided to put another fellow in here," grinned Bob Cherry. "Still, it wouldn't be quite fair. Counting you as two—and your fat enough—we are six already."
        "Oh, Really, Cherry—"
        "And we don't want any strange dogs in the kennel," said Bob Cherry. "I rather like that little Chinese beggar, but there's no room for him here. I say, those sausages look ripping, Billy."
        "They are ripping," said Bunter. "I'm sincerely sorry it wouldn't run to chips. There's bread-and-butter. I've got one baked potato for myself. You don't care for them, do you?"
        "Awfully!" said Bob Cherry, with a grin.
        "Then I'm sorry there's no more than one. Hallo, here's Wharton, at last! The sausages are getting cold, Wharton."
        Harry Wharton, Nugent, and Hurree Singh came into the study. The chums were glowing from the exercise of the football field and the sharp rub down following it. Nugent sniffed the scent of the sausages appreciatively.
        "Bunter, you're worth your weight in gravy!" he exclaimed. "These sosses are prime! and I wonder if we can persuade Inky to have one!"
        Hurree Jamset Ram Singh shook his head.
        "The esteemed banana and the honourable brown bread are excellent prog for my worthy self," he remarked.
        "I prefer sausages myself," remarked Nugent, sitting down at the table. "Why, the fat young villain hasn't cooked any chips. I always like chips with sausages."
        "The funds wouldn't run to it," said Billy Bunter. "you fellows get things done pretty cheap as it is. I had to have a pork-pie to keep up my strength. I should have been too hungry to do the cooking, and so it wouldn't run to chips. I'm sincerely sorry! Fortunately, I have a baked spud for myself. I've made you a banana fritter, Inky and it's really nice. I nearly ate it myself."
        "I thank my esteemed chum," said the Nabob of Bhanipur, as he sat down. "May I pass you a banana fritter, my esteemed chum, Wharton?"
        "No," said Harry Wharton laughing, "you can pass me the sausages."
        The chums of the Remove settled down to tea. The four footballers were hungry, and Billy Bunter, though he took no exercise, had an appetite excelling any other there. The tea had just commenced when the door opened, and Bunter looked up with a grunt.
        "My word, if it isn't that Chinee again!"

The Second Chapter.

Wun Lung Comes to Tea.

Wun Lung came into the study with his soft step and his bland, insinuating air. The chums of the Remove all turned their heads to look at him. Harry Wharton gave him a good-natured nod. Harry had befriended the new boy in the Remove, and saved him from a set of rough spirits and who had considered it great fun to "rag the Chinee." And since then Wun Lung had shown a great attachment for the captain of the Remove.
        "Hallo, hallo, hallo!" said Bob Cherry.
        "Me hungly," said Wun Lung.
        "They're having tea in Hall," said Billy Bunter, with a withering look at the Chinee. "Go down and grub with the Form."
        "No savvy."
        "Travel! Bunk! Get out!"
        "No savvy."
        "Oh, let him stay to tea," said Harry Wharton, laughing. "Will you have tea with us, Wun Lung?"
        Wun Lung's almond eyes glistened.
        "Me savvy."
        "Yes, I thought he'd savvy that!" grinned Bob Cherry, making room for the guest. "Sit down here, my pippin. You can hang your pigtail over the back of your chair. I hope you've brought your chop-sticks. We don't keep them in the study. We haven't a rush of Chinese guests, you know."
        The Celestial grinned.
        "Chopee stickee alone; knifee-folkee now, allee samee foleign devil!"
        "My hat! You mustn't call your entertainers foreign devils." said Nugent. "It's not considered polite."
        "Wun Lung solly."
        "The apologyfulness is acceptable," said the Nabob of Bhanipur. "I, for one, am gladfully pleased to welcome a guestful visitor from the farful lands of Asia. It is perhaps fully possible that you speakfully converse in my language. Tum hindustanee bol sakte?"
        Thc Chinee shook his head. He replied in a voluble volley of Chinese, to which the nabob in turn shook his head.
        "Oh, don't!" said Bob Cherry. "If you're going to hold a conversation in Hindustanee and Chinese, I shall slide. Do you like and sausages, kid? Savvy?"
        "Me savvy. Me likee muchee!"
        Bob Cherry gave the Chinese boy a liberal helping of everything. He had none of the prejudices of the Hindu with regard to articles of diet. All was grist that came to his mill, and he had a good appetite. His face glowed with pleasure and good-humour, while a cloud settled upon Billy Bunter's. Bunter was not inhospitable, but he was thinking of his supper. An extra guest at the table "queered" the next meal. The chums of the Remove were content with the bread-and-cheese supper in hall; Bunter wasn't.
        Tea finished, the chums of the Remove rose. They had their preparation to do for the morrow's lessons, and after that there was a meeting of the junior football committee to be attended.
        Billy Bunter sat in the armchair to rest after his labors, and Bob Cherry swept off the tea things into the cupboard. Books were brought out, and pens dipped into ink. Wun Lung sat on the hearthrug and blinked at the fire.
        "He's at home here now," murmured Bob Cherry. "He doesn't mean to shift."
        "I suppose he has prep. to do," said Wharton, with a puzzled look, and he bent and tapped the Chinese boy on the shoulder. Wun Lung looked up with a childlike smile. "I say, kiddy. haven't you your prep. to do?"
        "No savvy."
        "Hadn't you better got along to your study and do your prep.?"
        "No savvy."
        It was pretty clear that Wun Lung did not choose to "savvy". Harry Wharton gave it up; and the chums of the Remove settled down to work. For a long time there was silence in the study. Billy Bunter rose from the armchair at last with a grunt, and joined the workers at the table.
        Wun Lung coiled himself up in the vacated chair, and stared at the fire. He seemed to be asleep, but several times when Wharton looked round he caught the gleam of the firelight on the dark eyes of the Celestial.
        At the end of an hour and the Removites had finished their prep. Harry Wharton rose from the table with a slight yawn. The Chinese boy looked up.
        "Wun Lung, old chap, hadn't you better run along and do your prep.?" asked Harry kindly.
        "No savvy."
        "You will have to prepare your lessons for the morning." said Wharton. "I thought Mr. Quelch had explained it to you. Have you your books?"
        "Bookee in studee."
        "Then run along and do your work."
        "Me savvy."
        The Chinee rose and scuttled out of the study. Wharton smiled. There was something ha liked very much about the youthful Celestial—something infantile and very taking. But the captain of the Remove suspected, at the same time, that there was more in the young Chinee than met the eye. He belonged to the variety of still water that runs deep.
        "Better get along to the committee, Bob," said Harry Wharton. "Nugent and Inky can play chess. The meeting is at eight, in Trevor's study, you know."
        "Right-ho!" said Bob Cherry, rising and stretching his long legs. "I– Hallo, hallo, hallo!. Here's young cheerful back again!"
        Wun Lung came scuttling in with several books under his arm. He had evidently misunderstood Wharton, or chosen to misunderstand him. He had brought his books to Study No. 1 to do his preparation there. Wharton burst into a laugh.
        "Let him stop," he said. "One of you follows might lend him hand with the work, too. I would myself, only I've got to get along. You might, Inky."
        "The pleasurefulness we'll be terrific," said the good-natured Nabob of Bhanipur.
        "What about my game of chess?" said Nugent.
        "You can playfully work out an esteemed problem on the chess-board while you waitfully attend for me to reach the finishfulness."
        "Oh, rats! I think I'll do a little sprint round the Close. You can do that after dark."
        And Nugent went out with Harry and Bob. Hurree Singh and Wun Lung were soon busy over the books. The dark face of the Hindu and the yellow countenance of the young Chinee drew close together, and Hurree Singh explained in his curious English, and Wun Lung answered in English more curious still. Their voices soon sent Billy Bunter to sleep in the armchair.
        Meanwhile, Wharton and Cherry went to Trevor's study to the committee meeting, and Nugent went out into the Close.
        It was a dark night, but quite fine. It was too dark to sprint very fast, but Nugent took a rapid swinging walk round the Close, enjoying keenly the sharp October air after the warmth of the study. As he passed the gym, a voice floated to his ears from an open window in that building just above his head. It was the voice of Bulstrode, the bully of the Remove.
        "If you follows will stand by me, we'll make him go through it. Every new kid has to go through it, and why shouldn't a rotten Chinee? Wharton will give in if there's a lot against him."
        Nugent did not choose to listen. He passed on without either quickening or slackening his pace, and left a murmur of voices behind him. There was a glint in the junior's eyes. He knew what Bulstrode's words meant. The Remove bully had not given up the idea of ragging the Chinee, and he was seeking to gain support in his opposition to Harry Wharton.
        Wharton had come down heavy on the raggers, and there had been some bitterness over it. Nugent walked on. He passed the porter's lodge, and swung on past the great iron gates of Greyfriars.
        In the dim gloom a patch of something white at the gate caught his eye, and he glanced at it.
        Then he gave a sadden start.
        It was a human face that was pressed against the bars of the gate, and a pair of deep, black eyes were looking in, and they were fixed upon the junior.
        The sudden discovery sent a strange thrill through Nugent.
        He hesitated a moment, and then walked directly towards

enter, for the gates wore closed for the night. A low ejaculation of amazement broke from Nugent as he came closer, and made out the form of the man outside the gate.
        He was a Chinaman!

The Third Chapter.

The Man from China.

Nugent stared at the stranger in amazement. Till Wun Lung came to Greyfriars, Nugent had never seen a Chinaman. Now it seemed to be raining them. Wun Lung had been only a couple of days at the school, and here was another Chinaman, peering in at the gates of Greyfriars under cover of the darkness. It was natural that Nugent should connect the two, and he jumped to the conclusion at once that the stranger was some relative of Wun Lung.
        "Hallo" he said, stopping at the gate.
        The man looked at him. He was clad in the garb of China, with some modifications. But, apart from that, there was no mistaking the Mongolian features, the oblique eyes, the pigtail. The face was that of an old man, wizened and wrinkled, but the eyes were as keen and alert as a monkey's.
        "Do you want anything here?" asked Nugent. "If you want to get in you have to pull the bell. Have you come to see anybody?"
        The old man gave Nugent a sharp look, with a quick, sudden movement of the head that reminded the boy strangely of a parrot. He began to speak, in a language totally unintelligible to the junior, but which he guessed to be Chinese. Then, remembering himself, he went on in English without a pause:
        "Is he here—is Wun Lung here?"
        "Yes," said Nugent. "There is a boy of that name at the school—a new boy."
        The old Chinaman nodded quickly.
        "Do you want to see him?" asked Nugent.
        "Yes, yes, yes!" said the old man eagerly. "Tell him–"
        "You can't come in without ringing up the porter. The Head would let you see him if you asked. Ring the bell."
        The Chinarnan shook his head.
        "No. no! I wish speakee Wun Lung, no others. Tell him I am here, and he will come."
        Nugent looked uneasy. If the man were a relation of Wun Lung's, there was no reason why he should not apply to the Head for permission to see the young Chinee. There was something furtive, something secretive about the old Chinaman that made Nugent vaguely suspicious, and he hesitated to reply.
        "Tellee him," urged the Chinaman—"tellee him the Mandarin Yen Hai is here to see him, and he will come."
        "But why don't you get permission to come in?" asked Nugent.
        The mandarin made an impatient gesture.
        "Tellee him! Tellee him!" he repeated.
        "Wait a minute or two," said Nugent shortly.
        He walked back towards the house. There was something vaguely suspicious about the old Chinaman, yet it could scarcely do any harm to convey his message to Wun Lung. If the boy chose to see the mandarin, it was his own business. At all invents, the locked gate was between them.
        Nugent went in and up to Study No. 1. The two Orientals were busy over their books.
        "Hallo!" said Nugent. "Nearly finished? I say, Wun Lung, have you any relations from China answering to the name of Yen Hai?"
        The Chinese boy gave a sudden start.
        "Yen Hai!"
        "That's it. I can see that you know the name," said Nugent curiously.
        It was easy enough to see that Won Lung knew the name. He had turned pale under his dark skin, and a troubled look came over his face. He rose from the table, and Nugent saw that his hands were trembling.
        "Who is he, kid?"
        "He is my uncle," said Wun Lung, the troubled look deepening on his face. "Me not likee see him—he not likee me come to England."
        "Well, he has come to see you."
        Wun Lung started again.
        "He is not hele?" he exclaimed, in a shrill whisper.
        "He is at the gate, and he wants you to go and speak to him," said Nugent. "But, mind, you needn't go unless you like. I'll go back and tell him you don't want to see him."
        Wun Lung shook his head quickly.
        "I must see him! Whele is he?"
        "Outside the gate."
        "Will you—will you comee with me?" said the Chinese boy timidly. "I—I am aflaid!"
        "Nothing to be afraid of," said Nugent reassuringly. "There's a locked gate, and he's on the other side of it. But we'll come—won't we, Inky?"
        "The ratherfulness is terrific," replied the nabob promptly.
        "Me tankee you muchee!"
        "Rats!" said Nugent cheerfully. "We're not going to let your uncle Gargoyle frighten you. We'll come along and see fair play. We sha'n't hear any of your conversation, as we don't know a word of your cheerful language. Come on, tell the old Bounder to get back on his tea-caddy!"
        Wun Lung smiled, and followed Nugent from the study, and the brought up the rear.
        Harry Wharton and Bob Cherry were just returning from the meeting in Trevor's study, and the juniors met them in the passage. Wharton stopped as Nugent tapped him on the shoulder.
        "Come on!" said Nugent. "Wun Lung's Uncle Gargoyle has called to see him, and we're going to see that the old chap doesn't bite through the bars of the gate."
        "Gargoyle!." said Bob Cherry, looking puzzled. "That's not a Chinese name!"
        "Ha, ha, ha! His name is Yen Hai, but I call him gargoyle after his features," explained Nugent. "Come on! He's waiting at the gate."
        "Does Wun Lung want us to come?"
        "Yes, rather! He's afraid of the gargoyle."
        "Right-ho; we'll come!"
        The Removites went out into the Close, and walked in a body to the gate. The old, wizened, yellow face was still pressed to the bars. The black eyes scintillated as they fell upon Wun Lung. A pair of clawlike hands grasped the iron bars.
        "Yen Hai," said Wun Lung, in a low voice.
        The old man replied in Chinese. He spoke in a shrill, harsh voice. and the Chinese junior listened with downcast eyes and a troubled brow. He shook his head as the mandarin paused; and then Yen Hai went on again more volubly than before. His voice sank lower, and there was a pathetic note in it, as if he were pleading with the boy. The wizened old features contracted, and the Removites, to their amazement, saw the fierce, dark eyes dimmed for a moment by moisture. But still Wun Lung shook his head.
        Then the manner of the mandarin changed. His face flushed with anger, his eyes blazed, his voice took on a shriller and harsher note. Wun Lung threw up his head, and a red flush came into his pale cheeks; his eyes flashed, but he did not speak. A torrent of invective poured from the lips of the old mandarin. Not a word of the strange tongue was comprehensible to the Greyfriars boys. From beginning to end they did not grasp a suitable of it. But the old man's meaning was clear now, at all invents. He was cursing the lad who had refused his demand, whatever it was; and in his rage his voice became husky, and the clawlike hands grasped and shook the strong bars of the gate.
        His voice sank at last from sheer exhaustion. The Removites stood looking on in silence. Then Wun Lung replied in Chinese. He spoke only a few sentences, in a low tone, with perfect quietness. The invectives of the old mandarin had troubled him, but they had not roused his anger. The mandarin listened, his face growing darker and darker. He interrupted the boy at last with a cry of rage, shook his fist fiercely through the bars of the gate, and then turning, disappeared into the darkness.
        "My only hat!" murmured Bob Cherry. That's what I call a really agreeable old gentleman to have for an uncle."
        The mandarin was gone. Wun Lung stood silent, with a pale face, and the juniors waited for him to move. He moved with a sudden start, turning back towards the house. Curious as they were, the chums asked no questions, and Wun Lung did not speak. But as they walked towards the schoolhouse, the Chinese boy slid his hand through Harry Wharton's arm, and held to him; and Harry knew by keen intuition that the instinct of seeking the protection of one stronger than himself had caused the action of the Chinese junior.

The Fourth Chapter.

A Fall for Bulstrode.

Wingate, the captain of Greyfriars, looked into the common-room as half-past-nine rang out from the clock tower.
        "Bed-time, kids!"
        Hurree Jamset Ram Singh was playing chess with the Chinese junior. He had discovered that Wun Lung was proficient at the game, and it was a bond of union between the two Orientals.
        Hurree Singh was a past master of the great game, and there was no junior at Greyfriars who could stand against him. But, somewhat to his surprise, the young Chinee was giving him a hard struggle. The nabob was to keen on the game to even hear Wingate's words.
        Wharton, Cherry, Nugent, and Hazeldene were standing round the table, looking on at the game with great interest.
        "Bed-time!" said the Sixth-Former again, looking over towards the group.
        "Please wait a momentfully, respected Wingate," said the nabob, in his purring voice. "I have the esteemed Chineseful chum mate in three."
        A smile flickered over the bland face of Wun Lung. He moved a piece, and the expression of the nabob's dusky features changed. He gave a gasp, and fixed his dark eyes on the board in dismay. The Captain of Greyfriars came over to the table, and glanced at the array of chessmen.
        "Come, you'll never finish that game," he said, good-naturedly.
        "The esteemed Wingate is mistakenfully in error," said the nabob. "The game is already finishfully concluded. The honorable Wun Lung can finish in two."
        "My hat!" said Harry Wharton. "Has he beaten you, Inky?"
        "He has beaten me lickfully."
        "I don't see it," said Wingate, who was a chess-player himself. "Where's the move?"
        Wun Lung smiled.
        "Lookee takee pawnee." he murmured, "checkee. Kingee done."
        "The game is donefully finished," said the nabob, with a sigh. "I did not expectully look for the lickful defeat. I shall try you againfully to-morrow, my worthy chum."
        "Me likee muchee."
        "Well, off you go to bed now" said captain of Greyfriars.
        "No savvy."
        "You'd better savvy before I come to look for you again," said Wingate; and he went out.
        Hurree Jamset Ram Singh rose and swept the pieces into the box. Perfectly good-natured as he was, he felt a trifle on edge after his defeat, and would gladly have tackled the Celestial in another game. But bed-time at Greyfriars, for the juniors at least, was like the laws of the Medes and Persians. And there was no arguing with Wingate of the Sixth.
        The Remove went up to bed. There was some whispering between Bulstrode, Levison, Trevor and the rest of the rougher set in the Remove. Harry Wharton did not notice it, but Nugent, mindful of the sentence he had caught at the open window of the gym, guessed at once what was on.
        "There's going to be trouble to-night, Harry," he said, in low voice, as he sat on Harry Wharton's bed to take his boots off. Wharton looked at him quickly.
        "In what way, Frank?"
        "About the heathen." And Nugent explained. Harry Wharton's brow grew dark.
        "There will be a row if they begin," he said briefly.
        The juniors went to bed. It was evidently the intention of Bulstrode and his set to leave whatever they meant to do until after lights out.
        Wingate came in, and found the Remove quietly in bed. Billy Bunter was already asleep. The fat junior was as good a sleeper as he was an eater. Wingate looked up and down the dormitory, and turned the light out.
        "Good-night, kids!"
        "Good-night, Wingate!"
        The door closed. The Remove dormitory was dark and silent. A murmur of voices rose from the upper end of the long, lofty room. Bulstrode's tones could be distinguished above the others, though his words were only audible to those near him. Harry Wharton did not close his eyes. There was no sleep yet for him.
        Five minutes elapsed, to make assurance doubly sure that the captain of the school was gone for good. Then there was a scratch, and a match flared out. A bicycle lantern was lighted, then another, and then several candle-ends. A flickering light spread through the Remove dormitory, and most of the fellows sat up in bed.
        Bulstrode stepped out. He had kept on most of his under-clothing, and now he slipped on his trousers and a pair of slippers. The October nights were chilly. Trevor, Levison, Skinner, Crouch, and others followed him. Bulstrode, with one eye on Harry Wharton's bed walked towards the bed of the unconscious Chinese boy. He laid his hand's on the bedclothes, and dragged them off with a single jerk. Wun Lung started up with an exclamation in Chinese, and stared at the bully of the Remove.
        "Out you come!" said Bulstrode.
        "Don't move, Wun Lung," said Harry Wharton quietly. He sprang out of bed, and was upon the spot in a second. "Stand back, Bulstrode!"
        Bulstrode looked at him furiously.
        "It's no good. Wharton," he snarled. "You can't carry things with a high hand in the Greyfriars Remove. Every new boy goes through it, and this heathen can do it as well as others. You went through it yourself, and pretty stiff," he added, with a sneer.
        "You shall not touch Wun Lung!"
        "I shall touch him. I shall toss him in a blanket, and make him run the gauntlet, and souse him with cold water," said Bulstrode tauntingly.
        "You will not!"
        "Get out of it, Wharton!" said Trevor. "We're going to put him through it. Why shouldn't we?"
        "Because he's a foreigner, because he's an inoffensive little chap," said Wharton. "He does not know our way. You don't know how much you might scare him."
        "He'll have to chance that."
        "Well, I can only repeat what I said before," said Harry Wharton. "The fellow who touches Wun Lung will have to walk over me first."
        "It's a bit of trouble over nothing," said Levison, with a shrug off the shoulders. "I don't see why the heathen Chinee shouldn't go through it. But if Wharton makes such a point of it, I say let him alone."
        "You can say what you like," said Bulstrode, between his teeth. "You have been sucking up to Wharton ever since the time he found you on the Black Pike. I'm going to put the Chinaman through it. Get out of the way, Wharton."
        "No fightee," murmured the Chinee, taking hold of Wharton's arm, as the lad was about to raise his fist. "No fightee. Me not aflaid."
        Wharton looked at him curiously. Undressed, the Chinese boy did not look as helpless as his bland and childlike manner implied. His limbs, though diminutive, were hard as nails, the muscles like iron. It occurred to Wharton that Wun Lung's manner was deceiving, and that considerable strength dwelt within the slim frame. But against an opponent like Bulstrode the Chinee surely could have no chance. Bulstrode was bigger than Wharton in every way, and though Wharton had conquered him in fair fight, he was a powerful adversary, and another fight might easily end another way. A struggle between Wun Lun and Bulstrode would be like the war of the pigmies and giants.
        "There you are!" exclaimed Trevor, "He's not afraid, he says. Let him go through it."
        "Rats!" said Wharton. "He doesn't know what you mean."
        "No aflaid," said Wun Lung, in a murmur audible only to his champion. "Big fellow no hultee Wun Lung. Jiu-jitsu."
        Wharton started. It had not occurred to him that the Chinese boy might be proficient in jiu-jitsu Yet he was still unwilling to leave Wun Lung to the tender mercies of Bulstrode. He hesitated.
        "All light," said Wun Lung, with a grin. "Lettee him tly takee me off bed, and you see. If he hultee mc, you come help. Savvy?"
        "Very well," said Harry Wharton, laughing. "Mind, I'll chip in the moment you want me."
        "Allee light."
        Wharton stepped aside. He set on his own bed and looked on. The gleam of mischief in Wun Lung's eye gave him an idea that there was a surprise in store for the Remove bully, but ha still had very strong misgivings. Still, he was ready to interfere as soon as his interference should be needed.
        Bulstrode was astonished at the change of front on Wharton's part. Still, he was glad enough to avoid a personal encounter with the best athlete in the Remove. He swaggered towards Wun Lung, who was sitting on the edge of his bed in his pyjamas.
        "Come off, you young rotter!" he grunted, seizing the Chinese boy by the shoulder, and giving him a powerful jerk.
        Wun Lung came flying off the bed, and then he seemed to cuddle round Bulstrodo like an eel. The bully's legs were swept off the floor, and he came down on his back with a crash that made the whole room ring. Wun Lung was sitting on his chest when he realised where ha was, and ha was pinned to the floor. The Removites gazed on in blank astonishment. It had been done so quickly that no one had been able to follow the heathen's motions with his eye; but they could all see Bulstrode lying on his back, and Wun Lung sitting on his chest.
        "My hat!" gasped Levison. "My only summer hat!"
        "Ha, ha, ha!" roared Bob Cherry. "Is that how you like it done, Bulstrode?"
        "The honourable Bulstrode seems surprisefully astonished."
        The expression upon Bulstrode's face made the whole Remove roar. Had an earthquake suddenly happened in the Remove dormitory, Bulstrode could not have looked more amazed, more sick and dizzy. The back of his head had hit the hard floor in his fall, and his brain was buzzing like a hive of bees.
        "I—I—lemmee get up! Get off my chest!" he stammered.
        "Ha, ha, ha!"
        "Drag him off, you fools!" yelled Bulstrode furiously.
        Trevor and Crouch started forward. Wharton quickly stepped in the way.
        "Fair play!" he said. "I should think Bulstrode's big enough to deal with a little chap like that without assistance."
        "Yes, rather!" chuckled Levison. "Why don't you fling him off, Bulstrode?"
        "Get off, you yellow imp!" roared the bully of the Remove.
        Wun Lung smiled blandly. He had his weight on Bulstrode's chest, his knees on Bulstrode's elbows. His weight was not great, but it was sufficient to pin down the bully of the Remove. Bulstrode could not get rid of his diminutive assailant; he could not rise; he could only squirm and gasp, and his face was crimson with mortification. The whole Remove was laughing at the ridiculous sight.
        "Let me get up!" he growled savagely.
        "Plomise" said Wun Lung sweetly—"plomise to let Wun Lung alone, and I lettee you lise."
        "I—I won't!"
        "Then you stay where you ale, I tinkee."
        "Let me get up"
        "Lats " said Wun Lung. His curious Chinese pronunciation, the changing of the "r's" into "l's" strangely transformed that familiar rejoinder; but there was no doubt as to what he meant. "Lats, my fliend!"
        "I—I promise," muttered Bulstrode, who would have given anything to get out of that absurd position. "It's all right."
        "Allee light."
        And Wun Lung sprung up like an india-rubber ball, and the bully of the Remove rose to his feet.

The Fifth Chapter.

The Terror of the Night!

Bulstrode stood panting—scarlet—his chest heaving. It seemed for a moment as if he would spring upon the Chinese boy and crush him. Wun Lung was sitting on the edge of his bed again, and the smile that was "child-Like and bland" was playing over his features.
        But the Remove bully restrained himself. He turned away with a sullen scowl, and went towards has own bed. And the intended raggers followed his example. Bulstrode had given up the idea, and his followers did not feel inclined to carry it out without him. In a few minutes they were all in bed Wharton again.
        Harry Wharton patted the Chinese junior on the shoulder.
        "Good for you," he said. "I never thought it was in you."
        "Me plactice" said Wun Lung. "The battle is not always to the stlong. What you tinkee?"
        "Quite right," laughed Wharton. "I think you can take care of yourself, anyway."
        And he went back to bed. The candle-ends were blown out, and the Remove, after much muttered discussion of the curious development on the part of the Chinese boy, went to sleep, with one exception.
        The exception was Bulstrode. He had given Wun Lung his promise to let him alone, and for very shame's sake he could not break it the next moment. But he was nursing his revenge. His bones, almost every bone in his body, ached from that tremendous bump on the floor. His head was still singing. He lay awake, and waited for the rest of the dormitory to sleep.
        The buzz died away at last. Eleven rang out from the clock tower, and then half-past. Greyfriars was silent. The Remove dormitory was sound in slumber, Only Bulstrode, with his aching bones, lay awake and vengeful.
        The bully of the Remove stepped out of bed. The night was very dark. There was no glimpse of the moon, and only the faintest glimmer of starlight in at the high windows in the bare, blue-washed walls.
        There was a faint sound in the dormitory. Bulstrode heard it, but he attributed it to some sleeper stirring. In the darkness he could see nothing.
        But he knew his way to the Chinese junior's bed. To seize the jug from the adjacent washstand, to invert it over the head of the sleeper, was his amiable intention, The shock and the drenching would sufficiently repay Wun Lung for that little exhibition of jiu-jitsu.
        He groped his way along the dormitory, his bare feet making no sound.
        He knew every inch of the great room, and he carefully avoided the beds, and anything else with which contact would have made a sound.
        There was a faint sound in the darkness. It sounded like a stealthy footfall, and Bulstrode started for a moment, listening. He concluded that he must have seen mistaken. It was impossible that there was another Removite out of bed beside himself.
        He crept on towards the Chinese junior's bed.
        Suddenly, in the dense gloom of the dormitory, a blacker shadow loomed up. In the darkness he was not aware of it for a moment. But he stopped, thrilling in every limb, his heart giving a sudden convulsive jump, as a sound of low, quick breathing caught his ears.
        For the moment he was petrified with terror.
        It was not another boy out of bed. The black shadow looming up before him in the dense darkness had the stature of a man.
        Bulstrode started back, and in his terror be forgot all caution, and his feet came heavily on the floor. There was a low, gasping sound from the black shadow, a sudden movement, and a hand reached out. Bulstrode felt the wind of it by his face as he dodged.
        A loud and piercing shriek left Bulstrode's lips—a shriek into which all the terror, all the wringing horror of this moment, found expression.
        It ran through the dormitory with a thousand echoes.
        There was a momentary mutter in the darkness, and a strong hand grasped Bulstrode, and he writhed in a powerful grasp.
        "Silence!"
        That single word, muttered in a strange tongue—English, but never spoken by English lips.
        But Bulstrodo was too convulsed by terror to heed.
        He shrieked again, and struggled frantically, convulsively, and tore himself from the detaining grasp, and sprang away blindly in the darkness.
        He collided with a bed, and fell to the floor, and, fearing every second that terrible grasp upon him again, he lay and shrieked almost in frenzy.
        There was a quiet sound of a door softly closing.
        "In Heaven's name, what is the matter?"
        It was Wharton's voice,
        The captain of the Remove was sitting up in bed, striving to pierce the darkness with his eyes, as he listened to Bulstrode's wild cries.
        "What is it? Who is that shrieking?"
        "Help, help!"
        Wharton sprang out of bed. He seized a matchbox and lighted a candle, and held it up, steering round him in the gloom. All the Removites were awake now—some sitting up in bed, some calling out, the more timid ones crouching under the bedclothes.
        "Bulstrode!" cried Wharton, as the light, of the candle fell upon the prostrate, quivering form of the bully of the Remove.
        "What is the matter?" cried Bob Cherry.
        He was out of bed and at Harry Wharton's side in a moment. Nugent and Hurree Singh were quick to follow, and a dozen or more of the Remove tumbled out, grasping pillows, water-jugs, boots, anything they could lay hold of for weapons.
        Harry Wharton stooped over Bulstrode and helped him up. Bulstrode's eyes were rolling, his face ashy white, his lips quivering and shaking as if with the palsy. The horrible fright in his face made Harry shiver. There had never been any love lost between these two. But that was all forgotten now. Harry threw his arm protectingly round the bully of the Remove, and Bulstrode, who seemed hardly able to stand, leaned heavily on his shoulder, gasping—gasps that were almost sobs.
        The dormitory door opened, and Mr. Quelch, the master of the Remove, came quickly in with a lamp in his hand. The Remove master had a poker in one hand, the lamp in the other. Has face was very startled.
        "Whatever is the matter?" he exclaimed. "Wharton, what is it?"
        "I don't know, sir," said Wharton, completely mystified himself. "I was woke up by fearful shrieking, and I lighted a candle and found Bulstrode like this. Look at him, sir."
        The Remove master came closer and threw the light upon Bulstrode's face. The deadly whiteness, the convulsive twitching of the features, made him start.
        "Bulstrode! Calm yourself! What has happened?"
        Bulstrode cast a fearful glance round the dormitory. The lights, the crowd round him, brought back some of his courage. He drew himself away from Harry Wharton's arm, but he was still trembling, and he had to grasp a bedstead for support.
        "Is—is he gone?"
        Mr. Quelch looked amazed, an expression that was reflected in every other face.
        "What are you talking about, Bulstrode?" the Remove master demanded. "Is who gone?"
        "He—it— My heaven!"
        "What has happened?"
        "I—I don't know! It was a burglar. I suppose!" groaned Bulstrode. "But I came on him suddenly in the darkness. I—I thought my heart would stop beating."
        "Do you mean to say that there was a burglar in the dormitory?"
        "Yes, or—or somebody."
        "I can see that you have had a great fright, Bulstrode, but I hardly think that there could have been a burglar," said Mr. Quelch quietly. "I have just come along the passage, and I have seen nothing of him. He cannot be here, either. Tell me exactly what occurred."
        "I–I was coming along—just here—when I saw a kind of shadow, and then he took hold of me," muttered Bulstrode, through his trembling lips. "I shrieked."
        "What were you doing out of bed at this time of night? Why should you have been coming along here when your bed is in the upper end of the dormitory?"
        Bulstrode was silent.
        "Come, Bulstrode," said the Remove master, kindly enough. "You have had a bad dream, and it frightened you. Tomorrow you will know it was all a dream."
        "It was not, sir," stammered Bulstrode. "I was out of bed, and wide awake."
        "Then why were you out of bed?"
        "I—I was going to play a little joke on the Chinee," stammered Bulstrode.
        Mr. Quelch's brow darkened, and so did Harry Wharton's. The latter, at least, had no doubt that the Remove bully was stating the facts now.
        "You were going to play a trick upon a sleeping boy at this hour of the night, Bulstrode?" Mr. Quelch demanded, in a voice that made Bulstrode quake.
        "It was only a joke, sir."
        "And what kind of a joke, pray?"
        "I—I was only going to throw some cold water over him, sir."
        "And did you realize that such a sudden shock in the dark night might have an effect upon him equal to the fright you have yourself had?" demanded Mr. Quelch sternly.
        "I—I didn't think of that, sir,"
        "You should have thought of it. You deserve the most severe punishments and if you ever carry out your malignant intention, Bulstrode, you will be severely dealt with. I shall make it a point to keep myself informed. Now, about this person you imagine touched you. Are you quite certain now that you are calmer, that there was anybody at all?"
        "Quite certain, sir," said Bulstrode, with a shudder. "I—I can feel his grip on me now."
        "You did not see him?"
        "Only a faint shadow. It seemed to loom up in the dark."
        "It was probably a boy."
        "It was too big for a boy, sir, and a boy could never have gripped me like that. It was the grip of a fellow stronger than myself, and I'm the strongest in the Remove."
        Mr. Quelch looked round at the scared, excited faces of the Removites. The boys were casting uneasy glances into the shadows that lurked and flickered round the dormitory.
        "Did anyone of you hear or see anything?" he asked.
        There was a general shaking of heads.
        "Was anyone awake before Bulstrode cried out?"
        Another general negative.
        "Might not the apparition have been a boy from a higher Form, coming here for a raid?" said Mr. Quelch, mindful of the rows between the Remove and the Upper Fourth, and turning to Bulstrode again.
        Bulstrode shook his head firmly.
        "It was a man, sir."
        "Boys, you may search the dormitory while I remain here," said Mr. Quelch. "You will not sleep, I am sure, till a search has been made. Wharton, take two more with you and go and wake Wingate, and ask him to call the prefects to search the house for a burglar."
        "Yes, sir."
        Wharton, Cherry and Nugent went to wake Wingate, taking a candle each to light their way. The Remove, under Mr. Quelch's eye, searched the dormitory from end to end. Every bed was carefully looked under There were few other places where an intruder could possibly have found concealment, but every corner was ransacked.
        It was all in vain. There was no trace of the burglar. If he was not a figment of Bulstrode's heated and terrified imagination, he had made good his escape.
        The search over, the Removites felt easier in their minds. The three chums returned and announced that Wingate was up and calling the prefects.
        "I will leave you now," said Mr. Quelch. "Keep your lights burning till I come back. The house will be thoroughly searched before I go back to bed. If there is a burglar we shall discover him, or, at least, evidence that he has left the house. None of you may stir from the dormitory."
        And Mr. Quelch left the room.
        The Removites were in a buzz of excited talk now. Even Billy Bunter was awake, and sitting up in bed now, and asking questions that no one took the trouble to answer.
        Bulstrode was plied with questions from all sides, but he could only say what he had already said to Mr. Quelch. He had not seen his assailant, only a looming shadow, which he was certain was that of a man and not of a boy. He had been grasped, and had broken away. In the security of the light and the crowd Bulstrode began to be a little ashamed of the wild terror he had displayed. He had not, after all, been hurt. Many of the Removites were inclined to attribute the whole matter to an attack of nightmare, and Bunter asked Bulstrode what he had had for his supper. The answer to that question was a hurtling pillow, which flattened the inquirer down upon his bed, and put an end to further questioning upon his part.
        The eager buzz of talk ceased as the dormitory door opened again, and the Remove master entered the room.

The Sixth Chapter.

The Unknown.

The Remove master's face was very grave. The juniors, as they looked at him, could see that there had been some discovery.
        "Have you found him, sir?" broke out Bulstrode eagerly.
        "No," said Mr. Quelch, "He has not been found. But it appears that the house has been entered by someone, and I must therefore regard your story as quite correct."
        There was a buzz of quick-drawn breath among the juniors.
        Bulstrode looked relieved. He had almost begun to believe himself that he had been misled by a disordered fancy.
        "A window has boon found unfastened," said the Remove master quietly. "It had been forced from the outside, and the scoundrel, whoever he was, has apparently effected his escape at the same point. Wingate and the other prefects are looking in the Close, but it is not likely that he will be found now. It is pretty clear that it was a house-breaker who frightened you here, Bulstrode, but there is no occasion for any further uneasiness. He must have come into the Remove dormitory by mistake, as there are few valuables here to tempt a thief."
        Mr. Quelch turned to the door.
        "You may go to sleep again quite securely," he said. "If you like, I will leave the light for the remainder of the night."
        "Not for me, sir," said Bulstrode.
        "Oh, no, sir," said Wharton quickly. "We're not afraid. Besides, the man is gone now."
        "Very well," said Mr. Quelch. "Good-night, boys!"
        "Good-night, sir!"
        The Remove tumbled quickly into bed. The light was switched off, and the dormitory plunged once more into darkness. Bulstrode was shivering between the sheets. He guessed that he would be chipped by the others on the morrow if he had the light left on. But he would have liked it all the same. The darkness was full of terror to him—peopled with threatening shapes.
        "Queer business," Bob Cherry remarked, as he settled his head on his pillow. "If any of us had run into the bounder instead of that duffer Bulstrode, he might have been collared and laid by the heels."
        "The ratherfulness is terrific," purred the sleepy voice of the nabob.
        "I don't know," Wharton remarked. "It must have been a horrible shock for Bulstrode—though I can't say I'm very sorry for him. He was going to play a cowardly trick on Wun Lung."
        There was a sound in the gloom, and Wharton started, as a shadow fell blacker beside his bed. But the next moment the soft voice of Wun Lung reassured him.
        "No flaidee," murmured the Celestial.
        "Wun Lung! Why aren't you in bed!"
        "Me flaidee."
        "It's alt right, kid," said Harry, in a low, reassuring voice, "the burglar won't come back."
        "You tinkee ha bulglal?"
        "Why, yes. What else could he have been?"
        "Why he comee to this dolmitoly?"
        "Wandered in here by mistake, I suppose. He wouldn't know his way about the house, would he?"
        "No, plaps not. Me flaidee."
        "What are you afraid of?"
        Tho Chinese boy was silent. But Harry Wharton could hear his quick, nervous breezing in the darkness.
        "Buck up, kiddy," murmured Bob Cherry drowsily. "There's nothing to be flaidee of. Getee into bedee, sleepee jolly quickee. Savvy?"
        The Celestial did not move.
        Harry Wharton touched him softly on the shoulder.
        "Would you like to come into my bed, Wun Lung, for to-night?"
        With a keen intuition he had guessed what was in the Chinese boy's mind.
        There was a soft, grateful murmur from Wun Lung.
        "Me likee muchee."
        "There's room, then. Hop in!"
        Harry Wharton made room for the Chinese junior in his bed. Wun Lung settled down there with a little purr of contentment like a kitten. In a few minutes more Harry was fast asleep.
        But it was long before the eyes of the Chinese junior closed. Long, long the dark eyes were wide open, staring into the darkness. Had the Chinese boy a cause for fear, unknown to his comrades—some weight on his mind, some deep uneasiness in his heart, that he could not explain to the English boys?
        Harry Wharton did not think of it then. He thought of it afterwards. But the remainder of the night passed without alarm.

The Seventh Chapter.

Bulstrode Catches It.

The next morning there was only one topic at Greyfriars—the curious happening of the night. The fact that a window had been forced proved that the house had been entered, but otherwise there was no trace of the thief. Nothing had been taken, and no traces of him were discovered in the grounds. The police at Friardale were communicated with, and the inspector came over to the school. But he discovered little that was not already known.
        He examined the forced window, and pronounced that that it had been done by a clumsy hand—not at all that of a professional house-breaker. This circumstance suggested that some tramp had made the attempt at robbery. If so, the man had doubtless passed on his road after the failure, and there was but slight chance of identifying him. The inspector promised to do his best, and left. But everyone supposed that the matter was at an end. Tramps often passed by the road through Friardale, or camped in the Priory ruins in the wood. The man would not be likely to linger after his unsuccessful exploit. The chances were that he was already twenty miles away from Greyfriars. That was the general opinion.
        In the midst of the almost endless discussion among the Removites, Wun Lung was silent. There was a shade upon the normally cheerful face of the Chinese boy, but he did not explain it. Wharton, who remembered his fear of the night before, thought that the matter was still weighing on his mind. It did not occur him then that the Chinese junior might have a secret cause for uneasiness.
        The "ragging" of Wun Lung seemed to have been quite given up, as far as the Form was concerned. Bulstrode retained some animosity, but the rest seemed inclined to let the "heathen" alone save for some occasional chipping. Wun Lung, indeed, was so soft and gentle, that few could have disliked him, and his bland smile was very disarming.
        Bulstrode had not forgotten, however. He had been chipped considerably on the subject of his fright. In the broad daylight it appeared rather ridiculous, even to himself. He rather unreasonably attributed it all to Wun Lung, who certainly had not wanted him to get out of bed that night. But Bulstrode was smarting, and he wanted to be "even" with somebody.
        Wun Lung was placed next to Harry Wharton in the class-room. In spite of the peculiarity of his English, his education had been good for his years. His Chinese pronunciation was a national peculiarity he was never likely to lose, but otherwise he was on level terms with most of the fellows in the Remove. Sometimes, indeed, he did not understand plain English. But the Fellows were beginning to suspect that that was only when he did not choose to understand it.
        It was curious to hear the Chinee construing Latin. His Latin, so far as reading and writing went, was quite up to the Remove average, but when he was construing aloud his pronunciation had the effect of turning Virgil into a humorist.
        The first time the Remove heard him on the Ænid there was a general chuckle.
        Mr. Quelch, with some doubt in his mind, pointed to one long, who rose to construe, with a sweet, submissive smile. He proceeded in this wise:
        "Tles notusee ableptasee in saxa latentiaee tolquetee—Saxa vocantee Italee, mediisee quae in flustibusee, Alas, Dolsum immance malee sumino."
        And a very audible smile swept through the Remove.
        Mr. Quelch tried to keep his countenance; but it was of no use, he had to smile with his Form, and the smile became a laugh.
        Wun Lung assumed an expression of innocent wonder. Apparently he did not know what was the cause of the merriment.
        But a portentious frown from the Form master restored the gravity of the Remove, and the lessons proceeded.
        Later, when Mr. Quelch was busy with the blackboard, Bulstrode leaned over from his desk towards the Chinese junior. He was sitting in the second row, just behind Wun Lung—having changed places with another fellow to get there. Harry Wharton happened to glance over his shoulder, and Bulstrode suddenly drew back.
        Wharton looked at him sharply.
        He knew that Bulstrode had been going to play some trick upon Wun Lung, and that he had stopped him only in time.
        The Remove bully gave him a defiant look.
        "Better be careful!" muttered Wharton.
        Bulstrode shrugged his shoulders.
        "What's the little game" murmured Levison, who was sitting next to the bully of the Remove.
        Bulstrode grinned.
        "Look!"
        He had a pin in his hand—a long and sharp one.
        Levison whistled inaudibly.
        "I say, you'd better draw it mild," he muttered. "That chap would wake the house if you stuck that in him."
        "I don't care. Who's to prove I did it?"
        "Wharton would guess."
        "He wouldn't give me away. I'll make that young beggar jump!"
        "Well, he'll jump if he gets that in his leg, and no mistake!" chuckled Levison.
        Bulstrode waited for an opportunity. It came a little later. The master of the Upper Fourth, Mr. Capper, came to the Form-roorn door to speak to Mr. Quelch. While the Form master's back was turned, Bulstrode leaned cautiously over the desk. Wharton, as it happened, was busy with his book, and had forgotten the previous incident.
        Jab went the pin against the plump leg of Wun Lung.
        The Chinese boy did not yell or jump. He gave a slight start, and turned his head, and looked Bulstrode in the face.
        There was a bland smile upon his lips.
        Bulstrode nearly fell over the desk. Hp gazed in blank amazement at the Chinee. He had stuck the sharp pain with all his force into the Celestial's leg, but apparently the "heathen" was insensible to pain.
        "M-m-my word!" gasped Bulstrode.
        He drew the pin away, It was red at the point.
        Wun Lung smiled sweetly.
        "No hultee muchee," he remarked. "Chinee legee not softee likee you. Savvy?"
        "M-m-my hat!"
        Mr. Quelch looked quickly round as Mr. Capper departed. He saw the pin in Bulstrode's hand, and the look of helpless amazement on face. He stepped quickly towards the class, a dark frown on his brow.
        "Bulstrode!"
        The bully of the Remove jumped, as the master rapped out his name.
        "Ye-e-es, sir"
        "Give me that pin!"
        "That—that pin, sir. What—what pin, sir?"
        "The one you had in your hand a moment ago."
        There was no trifling with Mr. Quelch. Bulstrode handed over the pin.
        "You stuck this pin in to Wun Lung, Bulstrode?"
        "I—I—I—"
        "Yes or no."
        "Ye-es, sir," stammered Bulstrode.
        "Did it hurt you, Wun Lung?"
        "Not muchee, sir. Chinee not softee."
        "Stand out before the class, Bulstrode."
        The Oriental insensibility to pain had saved Wun Lung from being much hurt, but Bulstrode's action called for punishment, all the same. He steeped out reluctantly before the class. Mr. Quelch took up his Pointer.
        "Hold out your hand!"
        Mr. Quelch rapped out the words.
        Bulstrode gave a wriggle. The pointer was far more dreaded than the cane by the Removites. But there was no help for it. He held out one hand, and then the other, and had a cut on each that nearly doubled him up. His face went almost white with the pain.
        "Now go back to your seat," said Mr. Quelch sternly, "and let that be a lesson to you not to play brutal tricks upon an unoffending boy."
        Bulstrode went back to his place without a word. But there was fury in has breast, and the looks he gave the Chinese junior boded ill for that youth when Bulstrode's time should come.
        When the class was dismissed, the chums of Study No. 1 hurried out at once to the football field. Wun Lung was following them when a savage grasp fell upon his shoulder.
        "No, you don't." said an unpleasant voice. And Bulstrode's strong grip dragged the Celestial into the shadow of the porch, where they could not be seen by the fellows in the Close.
        Wun Lung looked at the bully of the Remove with a sweet smile.
        "Likee talkee?" he asked. "Me happee talkee to Bulstlode."
        Bulstrode smiled grimly,
        "You won't be happy when I've finished with you!" he remarked. "It's no good looking round; Wharton isn't here now, you yellow-skinned rat!"
        "No savvy."
        "You got me into a row with Mr. Quelch, you young cad!"
        "No savvy!"
        "And now I'm going to make you sit up for it!"
        "No sitee up. No savvy."
        "I'll make you savvy!" grinned Bulstrode. "Take that—and that!"
        The blows fell thick and fast on the Chinese junior. Suddenly Wun Lung seemed to curl like an eel round his bulky assailant, and Bulstrode felt himself going. He made a desperate effort to save himself, but quite in vain. The next moment he was lying on the cold stone, with an ache all over him, looking up at the arch of the old porch; and Wun Lung was strolling quietly down to the football field.

The Eighth Chapter.

Wun Lung Plays Football.

It was a keen, clear October day. After morning lessons, most of the Remove had gone dawn to the football ground for practice. There was time for a good half-hour before the juniors' midday dinner. And Harry Wharton, the football captain of the Remove, had the responsibility of keeping the Form team up to the mark, and he did not spare them. A Form match with the Upper Fourth was shortly coming off, and after that there were two important fixtures close at hand—with Redclyffe and with St. Jim's. The Greyfriars juniors took football quite as seriously as their elders. And it was Harry Wharton's ambition to make the Remove team superior to that of the Upper Fourth—a difficult task in the nature of things, the higher Form, of course, consisting mainly of older and bigger fellows. But Wharton hoped to "pull it off," and the Form match would bring the matter to a decisive test.
        Wharton & Co. had hastily formed up a scratch match with six a side, to get to practice, and they were in the thick of it when Wun Lung arrived on the ground. The Chinese junior took a great interest in football. He had never seen the game till he came to England—and he had not been long in England. The rules of the game were a total a unknown quantity to him. He knew that the boys were struggling for the possession of a ball. That they fought under certain conditions he did not know. There are good old ladies in this country who have exactly the same view of football.
        Nugent had come off the field, having had an accidental kick on the ankle which made him limp painfully. He was standing by the ropes with a coat round him, occasionally rubbing his ankle, when Wuu Lung came up. Nugent usually made it a point to be very kind to the young Oriental, but just now he was watching the game keenly, and he did not see Wun Lung and was not aware of his presence till he heard his soft, silky voice.
        "Playee football, my fliend?"
        Nugent looked around with a grin.
        "Yes," he said, "that's football."
        "Why you not playee?"
        "Knock on the ankle."
        "Mp savvy. You hurtee?"
        "A little bit. Have to be careful, you know, with the Form much coming off."
        "How many playee?"
        "There should be eleven aside," explained Nugent. "This is Association, you know." The Chinese junior nodded, though the explanation was so much Greek to him. "But this is only a scratch much, for the practice, and we've knocked up six aside. I'm out of it, and there are only five with Wharton against six with Bob."
        "Me savvy."
        Wun Lung looked on earnestly. Bob Cherry, Hurree Singh, Russel, Skinner, Hazeldean and Levison were playing on one side. Harry Wharton, Trevor, Desmond, Rawlings, and Morgan on the other. Wharton was holding his ground. But the six were pressing the five hard, and Hazeldean, who was keeping goal for Bob Cherry, had come out from between the posts.
        "You watch," said Nugent; "Harry will get the ball."
        "He is tlyin to get the ballee!"
        "Of course."
        "Whatee he do with it?"
        Nugent laughed.
        "He's got to shove it through the goal—those posts, you know."
        "Why not thlough those postee behind him?"
        "Ha, ha! That's his own goal. If it goes through there it counts a goal against him, you see, whoever puts it through."
        "Me savvy. Why he not pickee up ball?"
        "That's Rugby."
        The reply left Wun Lung as wise as it found him. He watched the game earnestly, and his expression grew anxious when he saw Wharton being driven back goalward. The six were playing up well, and the struggle was now all on Wharton's side of the half-way line.
        "Suppose me playee?" suggested Wun Lung.
        Nugent gave a roar.
        "Ha, ha, ha! You'd make a ripping footballer! What you want is a thorough knowledge of the game, and I can see you have that!"
        "Me playee in your place," said the Chinee. "Helpee Whalton. Me playee."
        "You can't! Wharton's all right."
        "Not allee lightee. Me helpee."
        "Here, hold on, you young ass; come back!" bawled Nugent.
        Wun Lung had hopped over the rope, and was making for the scene of action. Nugent's shout was in vain. The Chinese junior meant to help Wharton. With his fearful and wonderful ideas of the great game, his aid was likely to cause some trouble on the field. And it did!
        "Come back!" bellowed Nugent. "Oh, my hat! Oh dear! You young villain! Come back!"
        But Wun Lung paid no heed. He ran very swiftly, his pigtail streaming behind him. The ball had been kicked into touch on the side towards Wun Lung, and Wun Lung was "on the ball" in a twinkling. He stooped and seized the leather, and there was a yell from the footballers.
        "Let that ball alone!"
        "Keep off the grass!"
        But Wun Lung did not heed. Clasping the muddy ball to his breast, he made a break for goal.
        The players stopped still and stared at him in blank amazement. To see a Chinese playing Rugby on an Association ground was rather a novelty. Wun Lung had a good turn of speed. He went down the field like a Rugger three-quarter racing for goal. Hazeldean had advanced so far from his posts that he had no chance of stopping the Chinee, but he would not have been able to, anyway. He held his sides and roared, and the other footballers, passing from amazement to merriment, roared also. Bob Cherry threw himself on the ground and kicked up his heels in ecstasy. Harry Wharton roared, and the others roared, and everybody in sight of the football ground roared.
        But Wun Lung paid no heed. He was on the ball! He raced on right up to the goal, and slipped between the posts, and came down on his face with the ball under him.
        Then he sat up and looked triumphantly round, having not the slightest doubt that he had scored a goal for his friend Wharton. He seemed surprised to see the whole field yelling hysterically.
        "Goal!" shrieked Nugent "Oh, my only aunt! Goal!"
        "Goalee," chirped Wun Lung; "goalee!"
        The players came up. Wharton held on to a goal-post, gasping. Wun Lung rose to his feet, the ball still in his hands.
        "Me takee goalee," he said blandly.
        "Ha, ha, ha!" shrieked Wharton, with the tears rolling down his cheeks.
        "Why laffee? Me take goalee!"
        "Ha, ha, ha!"
        "Oh dear!" murmured Bob Cherry, wiping his eyes. "Hand over that ball, and go and bury yourself somewhere!"
        "Me takee goalee for Whalton."
        "Ha, ha, ha! Are you going to count that goal Wharton?"
        "Ha, ha, ha!"
        "No savvy," said Wun Lung. "Why laffee?"
        "My dear kid, it would take too long to explain. But you don't play Rugby in Association games, and outsiders aren't allowed to join a football team at their own sweet will, and you don't play a ball in touch, and you had better go and eat coke, anyway. Hand over that ball and bunk!"
        Wun Lung looked inquiringly at Harry Wharton.
        "Me playee," he said. "Me likee football. Me takee more goalee."
        Harry Wharton wiped his eyes.
        "You'll have to learn the game first, kid," he said. "Lucky for you this is only a practice match. If you interrupted a set match like that, you would get jumped on with both feet!"
        "Why jumpee?"
        "Oh, run along now, and I'll tell you later! Buzz off!"
        "You not wishee me playee?"
        "Ha, ha! Not till you've learned the difference between football and dominoes!"
        "No savvy."
        But Wun Lung give up the ball, and trotted obediently off the field. He did not know why his goal was not acceptable to the person it had been taken for, but Wharton's word was law to him. The play was resumed, but the match was spoiled. Every now and then one of the players would burst into a shriek of laughter which would be taken up by the rest. The sight of Wun Lung gravely watching the game overcame the juniors whenever they caught sight of him. They went off the field at last, still chuckling.
        "Who winee?" asked Wun Lung, as he joined Harry Wharton. The captain of the Remove had the ball under his arm, and he looked very red and muddy and healthy.
        "Nobody," said Wharton, laughing "no goals on either side."
        "But me take one goalee for you!"
        "I'm afraid that wouldn't be allowed to count," said Wharton, laughing.
        The Chinese junior looked puzzled.
        "No savvy."
        "I'll tell you what, Wun Lung," said Wharton; "if you like to take up the game, I'll take you in hand and give you some instruction, and see whether I can make a footballer of you. You were very funny just now, but I noticed you could get over the ground!"
        The Chinese junior's eyes sparkled eagerly.
        "Me likee!" he said breathlessly. "Me likee playee! Me learnee quickee!"
        "Then it's settled."
        "Wun Lung velly glateful."
        "Oh, rats! That's all right."
        And after dinner the Chinese chum had his first lesson in the grand old game.

The Ninth Chapter.

A Visit to Yen Hai.

"I'll walk down to the village with you, Harry," Bob Cherry remarked. Wharton shook his head.
        "No, Bob. You get to practice. I'll run down alone—or, rather, I'll take Wun Lung with me. He ought to be shown round a bit."
        "Right you are!"
        The chums of the Remove, and most of the eleven, were soon at work on the junior ground, while Harry Wharton looked round for Wun Lung. He found the Chinese boy sitting under an elm, reading a curious looking written volume in Chinese characters. He looked up with a smile as Wharton stopped, and rose to his feet.
        "Like a walk to the village?" asked Wharton. "I am going there. You haven't been through Friardalo yet, I believe."
        "Velly tlue. Me likee come."
        "Come along, then."
        Wun Lung fetched his cap, and they walked down to the gates. Some curious glances followed them. Hurree Singh, the other oriental at Greyfriars, dressed in ordinary European garb, but his dusky complexion often drew personal remarks from thoughtless boys outside Greyfriars. What effect the garb of a Chinaman, to say nothing of the pigtail was likely to have upon the youth of Friardale, was a question that occurred to a good many minds. Wharton did not seem to care much.
        They strolled down the lane. Wun Lung had to trot a little to keep pace with Wharton's strides. Harry noticed it presently, and slackened his pace. They entered the village and passed down the old-fashioned High Street. In the little old shops the chief article displayed was fireworks, for it was nearly the end of October, and in a couple of weeks came October 5th. It was rather unfortunate for Wun Lung, for half a dozen little urchins immediately spotted him, and set up a yell.
        "'Ere's another guy!"
        Wharton gritted his teeth angrily. But the Chinese boy smiled blandly, and seemed quite impervious to the remarks of the village youths.
        "When did yer get orf the tea-caddy?" demanded one youth.
        "Here be another guy!"
        "Rah, rah! 'Nother guy!"
        The Removites marched straight on. Their way lay past the Red Cow, an old-fashioned hostelry lying back from the road, with a long garden behind it stretching a way to the fields. On the balcony, covered with creepers that were turning brown in the autumn, a little old man sat, and as Wun Lung's glance fell upon him, he gave a start. Harry glanced round, and recognized Yen Hai, the mandarin.
        The old chinaman saw them, and his eyes scintillated. He gave no other sign of having observed them, however, and went on smoking his pipe stolidly. Wun Lung made a timid sign of recognition, which passed unacknowledged. There was a cloud on the face of the Chinese junior as they walked on now. He covered a little as his eye met Wharton's.
        "My uncle bad fliends now," he explained. "He not likee me comee to this countly. He old Chinaman—not likee foleign devil."
        Harry Wharton laughed.
        "Then why is he here?"
        "He comee tly makee me go backee."
        "Oh, I see!"
        "My fathel dead," said Wun Lung simply. "He speakee English—likee English—likee me learnee English and be English. He leavee me in chalge of Majol Newcome to bling to England. My uncle not likee. If I in China, he have contlol of me. Me savvy. Me not go backee, not till me glown up."
        "I see."
        Wharton understood clearly enough the difference between the Chinaman of the generation that was going out, and to Chinaman of the generation that was coming in. He had read of the Young China party, who wished to wake up their country on Japanese lines. He could understand the prejudices of the old mandarin, his horror of his nephew living and receiving his education in the midst of the "foreign devils." The old fellow must have had his good points. It was no light thing to undertake a journey halfway round the globe for the stake of the boy whom he supposed to be learning to forsake and despise the ways of his fathers.
        They entered Crump's shop, and Harry found that the new football which he had ordered was ready, and paid for it. A dozen or more urchins followed Wun Lung when he came øut, and they walked towards Greyfriars again. Wharton's browse noted angrily. He was greatly inclined to charge into the crowd and knock them flying right and left. Wun Lung probably read his thoughts in his face, for he laid his hand gently on Harry's sleeve.
        "Not gettee angly," he said. "Wun Lung no cale."
        "The young rascals—"
        "Allee lightee."
        As they passed the Red Cow again, Wun Lung hesitated, and glanced at Wharton. The figure of the old Chinaman had disappeared from the balcony.
        "You'd like to go in and speak to your uncle," said Wharton, Wun Lung's thought.
        "Will you comee?"
        "Would you like me to come with you?"
        "Me feel mole safee."
        "More safe! You don't think the old gentleman would hurt you do you, Wun Lung?"
        "Me no savvy. Me likee you come."
        "I'll come, with pleasure."
        The host of the Red Cow, a white-whiskered, red-faced old fellow, grinned genially at Wun Lung when they entered.
        "You want to see your dad?" he asked.
        "Me wantee see uncle."
        "Oh, uncle, is it? You'll have to go round by the garden, then. He's a queer old gentleman, he is. He's locked up his door in the house, and always goes into his room from the garden. That's the way you'll have to go."
        The juniors went down the path beside the inn into the long, wide garden, sheltered by old trees. At the bottom of the garden a path through an orchard led down to the banks of the Sark. At the back of the house a flight of wooden steps led to a small verandah, upon which a door opened. In the doorway the old Chinaman was sitting. He was smoking a long pipe, as when the boys had seen him last, and did not observe them. Wun Lung ascended the steps. The old Chinaman caught sight of him then, and laid down the pipe. He turned towards the Chinese junior with his old wizened, yellow face strangely lighting up.
        Harry Wharton did not understand a word of the sentences he began to utter volubly, but he guessed the thought that was in the old mandarin's mind. He fancied that Wun Lung had changed his mind, and had come back to him.
        The Chinese boy looked sad and troubled.
        He waited for the old man to cease, and then shook his head, and spoke in a low voice.
        The expression of the old parchment face changed.
        The mandarin made a furious gesture, and sat down again and took up his pipe. Wun Lung went on, in a pleading voice, but a second savage gesture, more decided than the first stopped him. He slowly descended the wooden steps, and rejoined Wharton, who was waiting for him below.
        "Comee long," he said briefly.
        His face was shadowed as he walked homeward beside Wharton. They were nearly at the gates of Greyfriars before Wun Lung spoke.
        "Me tly makee fliend," he said. "No goodee. Yen Hai nevel folgive me; he tinkee me go back to China, or he culse me; he no savvy."
        "His curses won't hurt you, Wun Lung," said Harry. "Try not to think about it. He may come to a more sensible frame of mind in time."
        Wun Lung nodded, but the shadow did not leave his face.

The Tenth Chapter.

The Fat Junior's New Scheme.

"I say, you fellows—"
        Thus Billy Bunter, greeting Wharton and Wun Lung, as they came in. There was a discontented look upon Billy Bunter's fat face.
        "Tea ready?" asked Hurry, laughing.
        "No," said Bunter, blinking through his glasses, "Tea isn't ready. Blessed if I know how you expect me to get tea ready when there isn't anything for tea. I was thinking—"
        "Thinking how to get it ready?"
        "Yes, in a way. Wun Lung is a new kid in the Remove—"
        "What about that"
        "Don't you think his coming here ought to be celebrated by a bit of a feed?"
        "Certainly. No objection to your standing a feed."
        "Oh, don't be funny! Wun Lung will have to stand it, of course."
        "Oh, shut up, you greedy young cormorant! I believe you'd cadge with your last breath!" exclaimed Wharton, in disgust.
        "Oh, really Wharton! I was thinking that Wun Lung could stand a feed in our study if he liked, and come to it himself. He couldn't have one in his own study without a lot of greedy chaps wanting to wire in, too. Blessed if I know what you're giggling at. But if you don't like the idea, I was thinking you might advance me something off my—"
        "Oh, draw it mild with the postal order!"
        "I wasn't going to speak of the postal order. I am going to have a pound a week shortly, and I could pay up everything out of that."
        Harry Wharton stared at the fat junior.
        "Where are you going to get a pound a week from? Off your rocker?"
        "Certainly not. It's only for thirteen weeks, but it will mount up. I shall get quite clear of all my old outstanding accounts, and start fresh with some capital in hand. Then I shall be able to fully square up the ten bob you lend me now."
        "But where are you going to get a pound a week for thirteen weeks from?" demanded Harry, in amazement.
        "It's the prize, you know, in 'The Gem' Football competition."
        "You utter ass!"
        "I don't see why you want to call me names. It's a genuine and really intelligent sort of competition and the editor says plainly that the prize will be given for the correct names of the footballers. As I am practically certain of being right in every instance, I don't see how I can possibly fail to rope in the pound a week. You see, when a fellow of my brain starts on a thing, something is bound to happen."
        "If the answers you send in are like those you've shown me, Billy, I'm afraid somebody else will get the pound a week."
        "Well, you're not much of a judge, you know. About that ten bob—"
        "What ten bob?"
        "The ten shillings you were going to lend me."
        "But I'm not going to lend you ten shillings. I haven't it, as a matter of fact."
        "I don't mind making it five. You can have it back out of my next postal-order, or out of the prize in 'The Gem' competition, whichever you like,"
        "Rats!" spread Wharton cheerfully. And he gave the Owl a gentle push, which sent him rolling to the ground. Harry walked on, and went to look for Nugent.
        "Hallo, Skinner" said Billy, groping about for his spectacles. "Help me find my glasses"
        "It's not Skinner," chuckled Bob Cherry, grinning at the perspiring and dishevelled Owl of the Remove. "What have you been up to? Dusting up the floor with yourself?"
        "I think you might give a fellow a hand up, Bob Cherry, instead of standing there grinning like a Cheshire cheese—I mean a Cheshire cat. Ow! Don't jerk me so suddenly, you beast; you shake up all my nerves."
        "What do you mean by amusing yourself rolling about a dusty floor?" said Bob severely. "Think of your clothes."
        "You ass I wasn't amusing myself. I—"
        "And I want you to come and do some cooking."
        Bunter's face lighted up at once.
        "Certainly, Cherry I'll be very pleased. Who's standing the feed?"
        "Nugent's had a remittance. Will you come, Wun Lung?"
        "Me likee muchee."
        "I don't see the use of having the heathen there," objected Billy Bunter.
        "No use in having you there, for that matter," said Bob cheerfully.
        "Oh, really, Cherry—"
        "Are you going to cut off and do the cooking, or not?"
        "Oh, certainly!"
        And Billy Bunter cut off.

The Eleventh Chapter.

Missing at Midnight.

Boom? A single stroke from the clock tower.
        Harry Wharton awoke. He hardly knew what made him wake. He lay in the darkness, wondering. It might have been the boom of the clock, sounding through the dim night, or was it some sound in the dormitory?
        The room was very dark. As he lay there, wide awake, every sense on the alert it was only natural that the scare of the preceding night should flash into his mind—that he should remember the unknown, the unseen and undiscovered visitant who had entered the Remove dormitory in the small hours of the night.
        He lay and listened. The single boom was followed by a deathly silence. It was one o'clock in the morning. Greyfriars slept.
        Wharton gave a sudden start, and set up in bed.
        A slight sound had caught his ear—a sound from below. What it was he did not know; it was simply a slight sound that made itself audible in the stillness of the night. The night was calm; on windy nights Greyfriars was full of sounds. But now it was still. And that dim, faint sound from the distance jarred on Harry's tense nerves with the shock of a sudden blow.
        At the same time, he became aware of a strange and pungent odour in the dormitory. It seemed to proceed from the bed next to him—the bed where Wun Lung slept. It was a faint, lingering perfume, and it seemed to Harry Wharton that his senses grow heavier as he sniffed it. It needed no more to tell him that it was a drug. If it was not chloroform, it was something like it.
        The boy, with every nerve quivering, sprang out of bed, He knew where to find a matchbox. He struck a match, and held it high in the air, his heart beating hard, half expecting to see in the darkness of the dormitory the mysterious form that had stricken Bulstrode with terror the night before.
        He saw nothing. The match burnt down to his fingers. Nothing! But even as it expired a cry left Harris lips. His glance had fallen on the Chinese boy's bed. It was empty!
        He struck another match with a quivering hand. It was no mistake, Wun Lung's bed was empty. The Chinese boy was gone!
        "Frank! Bob! Inky! Wake up!"
        Harry Wharton's voice rang through the Remove dormitory. A dozen fellows started out of their sleep. Wharton found a candle and lighted it.
        "Hallo, hallo, hallo! What's the matter?" demanded Bob Cherry's sleepy voice.
        "Theres something wrong."
        "Eh? What is it?"
        "Wun Lung's gone."
        "What!"
        Bob Cherry sprang out of bed. Nugent and Hurree Singh, Desmond and Hazeldean, were up a moment later. They gazed at Wan Lung's bed in amazement.
        "I heard something," said Harry Wharton hurriedly. "I don't know what. Wun Lung is gone. Someone has been here."
        "But—but he may have gone of his own accord."
        "Why? I heard a noise downstairs, and sniff and his pillow. Do you smell that? It is chloroform."
        "Good heavens!"
        Wharton was dressing hastily. He stayed only to put on trousers and boots, the latter unlaced. He hastily buttoned a brace, and caught up the candle.
        "Come on, kids! Something's awfully wrong. I don't know what it is is, but—"
        He opened the dormitory door. The candle flickered in the windy passage. Bob Cherry was lighting a bicycle lantern. There was a faint sound from below.
        Careless of the fact that he was unarmed, and Wharton ran down the stairs. The candle was blown out, but he did not stop. He knew whence the sound came. It was from the window in the hall, the same window where the intruder of the previous night had entered—the window that had been found forced in the morning.
        Wharton reached the window. A glimmer of starlight met his eye, a cold breath of the night air fanned his face. He knew that the window was open before he reached it. It was open. It had been forced again, and it swung open on its hinges. Someone had been in the house, but now was gone. Was Wun Lung gone with him?
        Harry Wharton clambered upon the window. Bob Cherry came hurrying up with the lantern. Nugent had a stake in his hand, Hurree Singh a cricket-stump.
        "Has he gone out?" gasped Bob Cherry.
        "Yes, and Wun Lung with him. Come on, we may catch them in the Close."
        "We're after you!"
        The chums of the Remove were in the open air in a few seconds. They left an excited house behind them. The alarm had spread from the Remove dormitory. The other fellows were awake, doors wore opening, voices shouting inquiries. Wharton and his comrades did not hear or heed. They ran through the Close towards the gates. The moon was showing over the clock tower, and there was a dim light in the Closp. But there was no sign of Wun Lung or his kidnapper.
        The juniors halted at the gates.
        "They're gone!" said Wharton, between his teeth.
        "Hark!" cried Nugent.
        There was a sound of wheels on the read. The sound passed the gate, and died away in the direction of the village. Wharton set his teeth.
        "Wun Lung is in that trap," he said quietly.
        "But—but who—what—"
        "I think I can guess." Wharton's brows were darkly knitted. "You remember what happened last night—the man who broke in—"
        "Thp burglar!"
        "He was no burglar. He came to the Remove dormitory—"
        "Great Scott! You think he came for Wun Lung?"
        "Yes. Bulstrode unintentionally saved the Chinee. What has happened tonight was intended for last night."
        "My hat, I think you're right!"
        "The rightfulness is terrific."
        "You see," went on Wharton hurriedly, "it was no thief. The man of last night was the man of to-night. Thinking it was a burglar, we never dreamed he would come again. If we had guessed it was a kidnapper we should have been on our guard."
        "But who—who—"
        "I think I know. I think little Wun Lung had a suspicion himself last night, in the light of what has happened. He was so scared, I let him stay in my bed. I couldn't understand it then."
        "Why couldn't he speak out?"
        "He was not sure, and I think he shrank from giving his uncle away."
        "His uncle?"
        "No other," said Wharton decisively. "It was Yen Hai who came here tonight. You remember what Wun Lung told us—the old man came here to persuade him to cut Greyfriars, and go back to China? He wouldn't, and you remember the fury Yen Hai was in?"
        "Yes, rather!"
        "It looks to me as if he had taken the law into his own hands, and I believe now that Wun Lung feared it all along, and would not speak."
        "But how could he find his way here, into our dorm—"
        "My dear chap, it's easy enough to get a plan of Greyfriars. You can get one in the County Guide. Yen Hai is up to an easy dodge like that."
        "It looks as if you've hit it, Harry. Shall we go and tell Mr. Quelch? The place is all awake now; Quelch will be up."
        "No. There's not a moment to lose. We dont know what that crazy old Chinaman may do. Come!"
        "Where are you going?"
        "To the Red Cow, in the village."
        "Good!"
        They wasted no more time in words. Wharton's chums believed that he was right in his surmise; but, right or wrong, it was the only clue they had, and they were ready to follow it up.
        The night was fine, though cold. Half-dressed as they were, the four Removites clambered over the wall, and broke into a swift run along the lane to Friardale. The lantern was left behind. Thp moon was coming up higher over the grey old buildings, and her light glimmered in the lane.
        The chums of the Remove ran hard, without a halt. The steady practice of the football field stood them in good stead now.
        Through the glimmering night, through the dark shadows of the trees across the lane, they ran, with light, pattering footsteps, in the dead silence.
        Harry Wharton's eyes gleamed as he caught a faint sound ahead—the distant sound of wheels on a rutty road.
        The pursuers were not far behind the pursued. The sound died away, and at length, panting for breath, the Removites arrived at the gate which gave admittance to the path beside the old inn. The windows of the Red Cow were quite dark. All within the building were sleeping, but in the yard Harry Wharton discerned a trap with the horse still between the shafts, tethered to a post. There was a sound in the stillness behind the inn.
        "Look out now," muttered Harry. "Don't hurt him if you can help it—he's an old man."
        "Right-ho! Lead on, old son!' murmured Bob Cherry.
        "The eagerfulness for the esteemed combat is terrific!"
        "Quiet now; don't give the alarm. We're not certain yet."
        They were pretty certain, however. They crept in silence down the path beside the inn, and turned into the old shaded garden. Lights gleamed from the window of the room where Harry and Wun Lung had visited the old Chinaman in the afternoon. Harry had told his chums of that visit, and they understood—if Wun Lung was in the power of his uncle, he was there. Wharton placed his finger on his lips, and softly ascended the wooden steps. In spite of his care, the old, dry wood creaked a little. The others followed him as quietly as they could.
        The door leading from the little verandah into the room was partly open, and a bar of light fell upon the gloom without. It was clear that the old Chinaman had but just gone in. But it was to the window that Harry Wharton hastily moved. There he could look into the room, and as he looked in his teeth came together with a sharp click.
        Yen Hai was standing by the table, breathing heavily, spent by a great exception. On the table lay a form wrapped in a blanket, evidently just as it had been lifted from a bed. The face, pale and set, was visible. It was the face of Wun Lung!
        Even as Harry Wharton looked in a pawn him, Wun Lung stirred and woke.

The Twelfth Chapter.

Exit the Mandarin.

Wun Lung sat up on the table. The blanket fell aside, and showed the diminutive Chinee in his blue silken pajamas. His almond eyes opened wide, and stared about him. They fell upon the wizened, gnome-like face of the old Chinaman, and he trembled.
        "Yen Hai!"
        The old man nodded grimly.
        Wun Lung slipped from the table. His head was swimming, and he held on to the table for support. Yen Hai, with a quick, tigerish movement, placed himself between the boy and the door on the verandah. The other door of the room was locked, and the key was removed.
        Wun Lung began to speak. He spoke in Chinese, and the chums of the Remove heard the murmur of his voice without understanding a word. The old man pointed to a pad lying on the table, from which a pungent scent still came. It was a mute explanation. Then he interrupted the boy, speaking harshly in Chinese. Wun Lung shook his head. An expression of ironic grimness came over the wizened face. The lean hand of the old Chinaman point to the chloroform rag again.
        Harry Wharton could guess what it all meant. If the Chinese junior did not go quietly with his uncle, he was to be drugged again, and carried off insensible. The lean finger pointed to a large packing-case in a corner of the room, and Wun Lung evidently understood. He cast a hunted look towards the door.
        Wharton looked round for his chums. They were close behind him.
        "Are you ready?" he muttered.
        "Yes, rather!"
        "Collar him, but don't hit him if it can be helped."
        Harry Wharton stepped to the door and pushed it open.
        Yen Hai gave a violent start, and stared in blank amazement at the chums of the Remove as they sprang into the room. Wun Lung gave a cry of joy.
        "Look out!" yelled Bob Cherry.
        The lean hand of the old chinaman was fumbling under his loose coat. Bob Cherry guessed what that action meant, and he hurled himself upon the mandarin, Wharton gripped him at the same moment. The lean hand came out, with something in it that flashed in the lamplight, but in a second Hurree Singh had wrenched it away, and flung it through the open door. Therp was a clink of steel on the wood without.
        The old man struggled, his face convulsed with fury. His strength was wonderful for man of his age, but a couple of the sturdy Removites were enough to hold him. He was pinioned, and Nugent, tearing the table-cover into two strips, tied his skinny wrists behind his back with it. Then the old man's resistance ceased.
        Wun Lung was almost crying with joy and relief. He flung his arms round Wharton's neck and hugged him, but when his glance turned on his uncle his look grew troubled.
        "I fancy the police-station is about the proper place for this amiable old gentleman." Nugent remarked.
        "He is my uncle," said Wun Lung, in a low voice.
        "Well, old chap, ho can't be allowed loose after this."
        "You won't be safe, Wun Lung," said Harry Wharton gravely. "It's not safe for you to let Yen Hai go after what he has done."
        "I will speak to him," said Wun Lung. "He shall promise me to leave the countlee, and if he makee a plomise he will keepee it."
        Wharton looked at the sullen face of the old Chinaman, and hesitated. Wun Lung laid a pleading hand on his arm,
        "Lettee him goee," he murmured. "Wun Lung velly glateful."
        Harry Wharton nodded.
        "Have your way, old chap."
        Wun Lung began to speak to the mandarin in Chinese. And now the boy's voice took on a stern tone, and it was the mandarin's turn to tremble. English laws and English prisons were an unknown terror to the old chinaman. It is quite probable that he pictured to himself the tortures he was accustomed to in his own delightful country. He was pale and shaking, and he nodded his head eagerly as the junior proceeded. When he spoke, it was in a low and broken voice. Wun Lung turned to his chums.
        "He has plomised to leave England by the next boatee to Canton, and to keepee away from Gleyflials till then," he said. "He will keepee his word."
        "Good! Then let him be."
        Wun Lung unfasten they old mandarin's bonds. He spoke to him in farewell, but the old man did not answer. They left him, and Wharton's last glance back fell upon him, still in the same position—silent, sullen, crushed.

·                ·                ·                ·                ·                ·                ·                ·

        The juniors borrowed the trap standing in the inn yard for the return to Greyfriars. Glad enough was Dr. Locke to see them again—glad were their friends, too. The head's brow was stern when he saw them, but as Wharton explained it cleared, and when the junior had finished, Dr. Locke shook him warmly by the hand.
        "I am sorry we had to bolt off without permission, sir," he concluded, "but I thought there was no time to lose."
        "And you were doubtless quite right, Wharton," said the Head. "You are fully excused. I am glad, too, that anything like a scandal has been avoided. It is much better for that foolish old man to quietly leave the country than for the papers to be filled with the case, as would happen if he were sent to prison. If you can be assured that he will go, Wun Lung–"
        "He nevel bleakee wold," said the Celestial.
        "Good! If he keeps his word, all will be well. I will give a hint to the inspector in Friardalo to keep an eye on him till he goes, to make all sure. Now, my lads, you may go back to bed. I can only say that I thank you from my heart for what you have done."
        And the Removites went back to bed very well satisfied with themselves.
        The mandarin did keep his word. There was no need to watch him—at daylight Yen Hai left Friardale, and the train bore him to London, and, as he had undertaken, the next steamer to Canton carried the mandarin us a passenger.
        And Wun Lung breathed more freely when ho knew it.
        The mandarin was gone—disappointed, but uninjured—and Wun Lung was satisfied, And, in spite of the perilous adventure of the night, the next day there was no more cheerful countenance in Greyfriars than that of the Chinese Chum.

The End.