Cashel Byron's Profession

"Good-bye," said Cashel, huskily, as he turned toward the door,

pretending that he had not noticed her action.

"Cashel!" she said, with emphatic surprise. "Are you sulky?"

"No," he retorted, angrily. "I haven't said anything. I suppose my

manners are not good enough, I'm very sorry; but I can't help it."

"Very well," said Mrs. Byron, firmly. "You can go, Cashel. I am not

pleased with you."

Cashel walked out of the room and slammed the door. At the foot of

the staircase he was stopped by a boy about a year younger than

himself, who accosted him eagerly.

"How much did she give you?" he whispered.

"Not a halfpenny," replied Cashel, grinding his teeth.

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed the other, much disappointed. "That was

beastly mean."

"She's as mean as she can be," said Cashel. "It's all old Monkey's

fault. He has been cramming her with lies about me. But she's just

as bad as he is. I tell you, Gully, I hate my mother."

"Oh, come!" said Gully, shocked. "That's a little too strong, old

chap. But she certainly ought to have stood something."

"I don't know what you intend to do, Gully; but I mean to bolt. If

she thinks I am going to stick here for the next two years she is

jolly much mistaken."

"It would be an awful lark to bolt," said Gully, with a chuckle.

"But," he added, seriously, "if you really mean it, by George, I'll

go too! Wilson has just given me a thousand lines; and I'll be

hanged if I do them."

"Gully," said Cashel, his eyes sparkling, "I should like to see one

of those chaps we saw on the common pitch into the doctor--get him

on the ropes, you know."

Gully's mouth watered. "Yes," he said, breathlessly; "particularly

the fellow they called the Fibber. Just one round would be enough

for the old beggar. Let's come out into the playground; I shall

catch it if I am found here."

II That night there was just sufficient light struggling through the

clouds to make Panley Common visible as a black expanse, against the

lightest tone of which a piece of ebony would have appeared pale.

Not a human being was stirring within a mile of Moncrief House, the

chimneys of which, ghostly white on the side next the moon, threw

long shadows on the silver-gray slates. The stillness had just been

broken by the stroke of a quarter past twelve from a distant church

tower, when, from the obscurity of one of these chimney shadows, a

head emerged. It belonged to a boy, whose body presently wriggled

through an open skylight. When his shoulders were through he turned

himself face upward, seized the miniature gable in which the

skylight was set, drew himself completely out, and made his way

stealthily down to the parapet. He was immediately followed by

another boy.