Bubby Thompson and I had often wondered how Totty Grahame would behave when he became a prefect. It was clear he could not play the fool as he had so often done, and yet one felt he was bound to break out somewhere. He could not—being Totty—be an ordinary prefect. So we returned for the spring term when Totty assumed his new honours, prepared to watch the course of events with more than our usual interest.

He turned up in my study one day wearing an entirely new expression, which he had recently assumed with a view to impressing the lower school.

“Scoop,” he said, “the school’s in a rotten state.”

“Generally is,” said I. “Pity to worry about it.”

“They’re slack—beastly slack. They stand about with their hands in their pockets. They are not keen on footer—they are not keen on anything.”

“They certainly want bucking up a bit,” I admitted.

“They are ragging masters, too,” Totty went on.

“Yes. I hear Hooker is giving Mr. Henson a pretty warm time in the lower fourth.”

“Of course, Henson is tempting,” Totty smiled slightly; “there was a day when you and I might have done something with Henson.” I thought he sighed. “But there’s a sort of epidemic of ragging this term. It comes when people have nothing else to think about.

“What we want to do is to create a diversion; to give them something new to think about.”

“What will it be?”

“I don’t know yet. But whatever it is, it will spread itself.”

Two days later a disgraceful scene occurred in the lower fourth. Hooker had converted the steps up to the chemistry room into a toboggan slide, while Mr. Henson was inside, by the simple expedient of filling in the spaces with snow. Henson descended the whole flight on the small of his back.

Totty was full of righteous indignation.

“It’s a perfect scandal,” said he.

“Did we never do it, Tot?”

“Didn’t we? Remember the time we put gunpowder in old Tubby’s pipe? We might have blown his head off. Poor old Tubby! Hopping round and shouting, ‘Am I disfigured?’ as if any new arrangement of his features could be anything but an improvement. Ah, we were young then. It is good to be young. But this sort of thing’s quite different. I say the school’s in a rotten state. We must create a diversion. It’s the essence of statecraft—creating a diversion.”

“Theatricals, then,” I suggested.

“Too much of a swot. Chaps won’t learn their parts.”

“Soccer matches between the forms?”

“Stale,” said Totty. “It must be something entirely new, and I know what it’s going to be, only you and I must not appear in it. I am a prefect now, and can’t afford to be given away.”

“Something quite new?”

“Yes, it’s a new boy.”

“Lots of ‘em,” said I. “Too many new boys. That’s what the matter with the school.”

“But this is a new sort of new boy,” Totty explained. “He’s all our own. We invent him ourselves.”

“What does he do?”

“Well, he don’t do much,” Totty admitted. “In fact, he never arrives, but he does all we want.”

Totty then entered fully into the whole matter. I cannot say that at first I saw very much in it, but he knew he could always count upon me. I had learned to appreciate the genius of Totty, for genius it certainly was, as the record of his after life has already proved. He had above all the gift of imagination—the seeing eye, always alive to possibilities.

When he had expounded the plot, “Is Bubby in it?” I asked.

“All right,” said Totty. “Bring him.”

Bubby supplied to our combination stolid common sense. On this occasion he summed up as follows:

“It’s a big thing, Totty,” he said, “but I don’t see what the deuce it has to do with reforming the school.”

When I came to think of it, neither did I. But Totty was quite sure.

“Rot,” he said, “I’ll give them something to think about. I’ll keep them out of mischief. It’s bound to have a good effect.”

So we had a long debate.

“The first thing,” said Totty, “is to find a name for him. I want one that will appeal to the imagination and live in the memory. Think of something good and we’ll meet tomorrow in the morning interval.”

My suggestion was ‘Adolph Parkhurst Haversham.’ I had thought it over very carefully, and was fed up with Bubby for jeering at it. “No, no!” said he. “There’s only one name for a boy of this type. He’s ‘Septimus Briggs,’ and he’s a vegetarian.”

Totty, however, swept both of these aside at once, “It’s got to be ‘Herbert Kingsley,’” he said. “I have a special reason. And he comes from Canada.”

So we agreed to let it go at that.

“I’ve been thinking him out,” Totty went on. “I hardly slept a wink last night, but I’ve got him fixed up, so listen to me, and don’t you forget it. He’s sixteen years old, and he comes from Ottawa. He’s the son of a millionaire and he’s bringing a gun and dogs, and a dress suit and an opera hat, and he’ll probably get into the Fifteen at half-back. He has some relations in this country. He’s short and stubby, with yellow hair.”

“All right,” said I, “but how do you account for him corning in the middle of the term? And why is he not on the list?”

“He was snowed up on the Canadian Pacific,” replied Totty, who was prepared for any emergency, “and missed three liners, and as for the list, we may have to put him on, but that would be risky. It’ll do as part of the mystery.”

“Oh,” said Bubby, “there’s a mystery?”

“Rather,” said Totty. “We have to work on that later on.”

“Well, how do you introduce him to the public?” said I.

“In a letter to Bubby from a relative in Montreal,” replied Totty, the ever-ready.

“Haven’t got any,” said Bubby. “Don’t keep ‘em.”

Totty was annoyed. “Don’t put silly little obstacles like that in the ‘way,” said he, “or we'll never get on. We’ve got to write that letter. By good luck the Head’s going away for a month on Monday, so we can start our Canadian as soon is we like.”

Writing the letter required much consideration, and when it was finished it had to be re-written on account of the watermark on the notepaper. “My dear William,” the letter ran, “I am writing to tell you about the son of an old friend, Colonel Kingsley, who leaves for England in a week or two, bound for your school. It seems such a long way!” Here followed, a minute description of our hero, and it was signed, “Your loving aunt, Rebecca.”

‘Now don’t go swaggering about with this letter,” said Totty severely. “Show it to about three chaps in strict confidence.”

“Perhaps I’d better have an aunt in Canada, too,” I suggested.

“You’ve got two uncles,” said Totty promptly, “one in Vancouver and one in Quebec. Your uncle James (he’s in Quebec) is in the pork trade, and met Colonel Kingsley on an Atlantic liner. I’m using all that crowd later on.”

“But you’ve got a real, live brother in Canada,” remarked Bubby. “Why don’t you use him?”

“I’m making a different sort of use of him,” Totty replied. “He’s going to post the letters.”

So Herbert Kingsley set forth on his giddy career. The school was a good deal interested, and Bubby played his part well enough, though once he lost his head, and on being asked what liner Kingsley was coming by, replied, “I don’t know; I’ll ask Totty.”

“What does Totty know about it?” was the natural rejoinder, and Bubby was gravelled, but no suspicions were aroused.

Having floated his man, as he put it, Totty became daily more mysterious and secretive, and before long Bubby and I found ourselves little mote than spectators of the plot.

The matter developed slowly, but we recognized in a hundred little incidents the influence of Totty’s master mind.

Totty looked to Bubby and me for support. He would come into my study with a weary air.

“The strain’s awful,” he would say. “It’s breaking me up. I never sleep a wink now, thinking out my combinations. The deuce of the thing is the number of threads one has to hold in one’s hand at once. But he’s going down—is Kingsley; he’s going down splendidly. I mean to have his photograph in circulation next week.” Then, turning to Bubby, “Look here,” be went on, “you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Just because I used your aunt Rebecca as a correspondent, you’re talking too much. You told Sandy only yesterday that he never played rugger. Sorry to say so, but that was a lie. I mean him to play half for the Fifteen, and I’ve spread a rumour in the lower school that he has played for the Province of Ontario. You really must not work against me in that way; it’s exasperating.”

“Sorry,” said Bubby. “I’ll keep quiet.”

“When I have any further use for your aunt, I’ll ask for her,” Totty went on. Then to me, “Now your uncle Jim, writing from Quebec on the 14th ult., said——”

Letters and postcards began to come for Kingsley (marked “To await arrival “) from various parts of the United Kingdom.

It was always assumed at Willisdean that what was written on a postcard was for the public eye, and as they lay unclaimed on the letter-table their contents soon permeated the school. A postcard from Birmingham was the chief success in this branch.

“Your car,” it ran, “will be forwarded to the address given according to your orders.”

At last letters bearing a Canadian postmark turned up. Meanwhile a photograph of young Kingsley was in circulation. (It was sent to me by my uncle Jim of Quebec.) Totty had selected it with infinite care. It had evidently been cut out of a sporting group. The head of a moose or elk, or some such beast, appeared in the background, and H. K. carried a rifle. A large hound lay at his feet, I remember, and there was snow. It was a striking portrait.

One night the name “Kingsley” was found added in pencil to the list in hall. The next morning it was gone, but it left the dark trail of the mystery behind.

The school was at every turn confronted by the shadowy personality of Herbert Kingsley. It could not get away from him. Curiosity held every one in its grip, yet no one knew anything definitely, and no one knew where to turn for information. Every endeavour was made, for among boys the detective instinct is strong. We afterwards learned that a corps of private detectives, with Hooker at their head, had taken up the case, but they were baffled at every turn, and learned no more than was common property. For strange to say the matron knew nothing. The secretary, who should have known, if any one did, was down with typhoid. The Head was away in Norway, and the masters either knew nothing, or concealed what they knew.

This was Totty’s view. “They are keeping something back,” he would say, “or why take him off the list?

Day by day some new happening added to the evidence, and at the table in study No. 7 sat Totty, his head sunk in his folded arms, swaying with silent laughter.

I happened to be at the front door one day, when the bell rang.

“Gentleman ‘ere o’ the name o’ Kingsley?” asked a horsey-looking youth, consulting a piece of paper. “‘Erbert Kingsley.”

At the mystic name several boys gathered round.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s about a horse,” was the reply. “Does he live here?”

“He hasn’t come yet,” said I, amazed at the completeness of Totty’s designs, and the youth, refusing to be drawn, departed.

But let us turn again to the letter-table, where the mass of evidence is accumulating day by day. There were three Canadian postcards, each of which lay just long enough to communicate its contents to the school, before being carried off to add to the fast-growing pile in the matron’s room, where Herbert’s correspondence awaited its owner. The first was from Kingsley senior. It ran: “Dear Bertie,—Hope you had a good voyage and like your school. Mother and I miss you already. I am sending the cheque straight to your bankers.—

R. B. K.”

The second was in a round, neat little hand:

“Too bad I didn’t see you to say good-bye. Don't ever forget me and write often—With love, Lottie.” This created nothing short of a sensation. But I told Totty no girl would use a postcard to—— “Shut up,” he said, with a fine contempt.

“What do you know about Canadian girls?” I confess he had me.

The third postcard was dirty and ill-written:

“Dear Mister K.,—It’s all rite. My man will fite for a hundred dollars. Pleese send a postal when you will be back.—Bill.”

So Herbert was a boxer and a football player and a killer of big game. The school was impatient for his arrival; there was a spirit of unrest among the masters, and poor Miss Houghton, the matron, was at her wits’ end. “It’s very strange,” she would say. “I’ve had no instructions about him. When is he coming? Where is he to sleep?” Our champion boxer was going into training. The captain of the Fifteen was considering the rearrangement of his team. The rifle corps awaited a new recruit. But I think the school was more impressed by his great wealth. It was the car, the horse, the cheque that appealed to them. When was he coming? We looked for him every day. We looked up the sailings of Canadian liners. In a word, the school was agog with excitement, and these were among the happiest days of Totty’s whole life.

“The strain’s telling on me,” he would say, “but there’s only another week of term, and I must try to hold out. And he’s been the success of my life—has Herbert.”

That was on the Wednesday. On Thursday he played his trump card. I came upon a large crowd round the hall door. Some one was reading out a newspaper-cutting, which had been found on the notice board. It bore no date. Of course, I recognized Totty’s hand in this, but, nevertheless, it fairly took my breath away. “Narrow escape of a young lady. Heroic rescue. About 2.30 yesterday afternoon on 23rd Street, a cab going west at a considerable pace collided with a dray going east. The horse took fright and dashed off at full gallop. A lady, Miss Charlotte Simmons, of Brooklyn” (a voice, “It’s Lottie “), “who was the sole occupant of the cab, certainly owes her life to a young man of about sixteen who, with great pluck, sprang forward and pulled up the horse. He was slightly injured. The young man’s name turns out to be Herbert Kingsley. He is a Canadian.”

I found Bubby at my elbow. “How the deuce——!” he was beginning, when Totty passed us. For a moment we got a glimpse into that dark soul. “Do you see now,” he whispered, “why I called him Kingsley—why he is a Canadian? I found the cutting first.”

Totty was bringing his campaign to a glorious close. He rested not a moment on his laurels. By the midday post came a postcard to the matron from Herbert himself. It was dated New York, and announced that, if his ship was up to time, he would arrive at Willisdean on Friday, the 27th, and this was the 26th.

It was no use talking to Totty now. He would explain nothing. He was master of the situation, and he knew it. I began positively to believe that he was capable of producing Herbert Kingsley on the spot, and was as much interested as any one else when Friday came.

About three o’clock a cab drove up, amid ringing cheers, but it was only Carter returning from the sick-house. Later in the day Bubby was permitted to reappear on the stage. “It’s my belief:,” he kept saying, “that he’s been stopped. I believe they don’t want him here. It’s been a mysterious thing all along, and it looked very fishy taking him off the list.” Then I was bold enough to play a card of my own—unauthorized. “I believe there’s no such person,” I said, surprised at my own courage; “I believe it’s all a hoax!” Tottty commended me highly for this; he called it carrying the war into the enemy’s camp. It is needless to say that they laughed my suggestion to scorn.

But in the evening a terrible thing happened. Suddenly it was all over the school that he had arrived! I rushed upstairs in a fever of excitement, to find Totty in the study moaning and rocking himself back and forth.

“Hold my head I” he said. “I’ve done the thing too well. He’s got out of my control—he’s come! Oh snakes, he’s come!”

It appeared that young Hooker had been struck with the brilliant idea of impersonating the new boy, and dressing himself in strange garments, had arrived in a cab. Of course, he was detected almost at once, and Totty had nothing but contempt for this feeble effort. So night came and no Herbert, and the school retired in bewilderment and unrest.

“Get on any better with your Form, Mr. Henson?” I heard Totty inquiring the following morning.

“Yes, thank you, Grahame,” said he cheerily. “By the way, do you know anything about this fellow Kingsley?”

“He’s a second cousin of mine,” said Totty, “but I’ve never met him.”

On Saturday evening at prayers, we heard, not without dismay, that the Head would be back to take chapel on Sunday, and would hold a ”council” of the school on Monday morning.

“Never thought he’d be back this term,” said Totty. “Come on,” and he made for study No. 7. Bubby was there before us; Totty’s brow was heavy with thought. At last he unburdened himself in great distress.

“I’ve got to kill him,” he said, “and it’s a crime, for I hadn’t nearly done with him.”

“Poor lad,” said I. “He’s very young to die.”

“I know,” Totty went on. “But it’s got to be. I hadn’t nearly finished with him. I hadn’t really begun on him. He was going to take a house in the town, and order things from the tradesmen, and end by committing a crime. Cox was coming for him himself—for forgery.” (Cox was a local sergeant of police, with a profound admiration for Totty.) “And now he’s got to die. Well, if it must be “—Totty drew pen and ink to him, then he looked up with a queer smile—” I wonder how the law stands with regard to faked obituary notices?” I handed him a telegraph form.

By Monday morning the school was frankly sick of Herbert Kingsley. The end of the term was at hand, and obviously he wasn’t coming. For the moment he was almost forgotten, when the news of his untimely death came as a thunder-clap upon us. Totty had discovered the obituary notice in a Liverpool paper. (The only time, by the way, that he appeared personally in the matter.)

“Kingsley, Herbert (of Ottawa, Canada), on the 14th inst. on the high seas; of pneumonia; aged 16; deeply regretted.”

It is not too much to say that the whole school felt that they had lost a friend; Bubby and I had certainly lost our chief interest in life, and Totty his main occupation, for we thought it was all over, and were just debating if it would be in bad taste to wear a black tie, when we discovered that Herbert, though out of our hands, was not dead, but continuing his mad career. For the bell rang for the “council.”

The Head had been away fully three weeks and had therefore a good deal to say to the school. He had at last dismissed us when we were recalled. Somehow my heart sank, and I looked at Totty.

“By the way,” said the Head, “there is another point. What about Herbert Kingsley?” He looked round sharply.

A thrill ran through his audience. There was dead silence.

“Come,” the Head went on, “surely some one can help me. I am naturally anxious to know more of a boy who proposes to come to my school without consulting me. Do you know him, Grahame? I hear he is a second cousin of yours.”

“I never met him, sir,” said Totty with truth.

“Well?” The Head looked round.

There was a short pause, and then the sepulchral voice of Brodie minor, “Please, sir, he’s dead!”

“Oh, he’s dead, is he?” said the Head, not apparently deeply moved by the information. “How did he die?” The newspaper was handed up. The Head looked at it, clearly puzzled. “This is curious,” he muttered under his breath. Then aloud, “Well, you can go.”

Totty was seldom long in a state of doubt. He decided forthwith to go over to the Head’s house and tell him the whole plot.

We naturally awaited his return with anxiety, but his appearance was reassuring.

“It’s all right, you fellows,” he said.

“Well, what did he say?”

“At first it did look bad, till I managed to show him how funny it had been. Thank Heaven, he has a sense of humour. It was the car that did it. Somehow the car appealed to him. He’s a real sportsman anyhow, and was awfully decent about it. After all, he saw that it was innocent enough. But he did give me a bit of a jaw about dangerous talents and putting them to a good use, and so on. He said we mustn’t let it get talked about. But I may tell Hector and Macgulligan, as long as it goes no further. “After all, you’ve killed the poor fellow,” he says, “and he’ll soon be forgotten.”

But Herbert is not yet forgotten, while the name of many a better man has passed into oblivion.

In a reserved compartment of the London train, on the following Friday, to a select and small assembly, Totty Grahame told the truth.

“It was a case of created identity,” he said, and his voice rose with a ring of triumph. “I made him, and he was all my own. I was Bubby’s aunt. I was Scoop’s uncle. I wrote the letters. I sent the parcels. The horse was mine, and the car. It was all mine. I made him. For a month I worked him, and I killed him of pneumonia on the high seas!”