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HE shadow of the termination now descended in sable thunder-clouds upon our devoted nobs. As Albert's uncle said, "School now gaped for its prey," In a very short space of time we should be wending our way back to Blackheath, and all the variegated delightfulness of the country would soon be only preserved in memory's faded flowers. (I don't care for that way of writing very much. It would be an awful swat to keep it up—looking out the words and all that.)

To speak in the language of every-day life, our holiday was jolly nearly up. We had had a ripping time, but it was all but over. We really did feel sorry—though, of course, it was rather decent to think of getting back to father and being able to tell the other chaps about our raft, and the dam, and the Tower of Mystery, and things like that.

When but a brief time was left to us, Oswald and Dicky met by chance in an apple-tree. (That sounds like "consequences," but it is mere truthfulness.) Dicky said:

"Only four more days." Oswald said, "Yes."