PREFACE TO NEW EDITION Books have their fates and this one's has been curious. I wrote it between January and March 1916, when I was seventeen and a half years old and in camp at Berkhamsted with the Inns of Court O.T.C. I loathed it there, everything about it, the impersonal military machine, the monotonous routine of drills and musketry, the endless foot-slogging, the perpetual petty fault-finding. I kept comparing my present life with that... more...

Twice Accepted. The reader is requested kindly to glance through the following batch of letters, which, oddly enough, are all dated September 9th, 18—: Number 1.—William Grover, M.A., Grandcourt School, to Mark Railsford, M.A., Lucerne. “Grandcourt, September 9th. “Dear Railsford,—I suppose this will catch you at Lucerne, on your way back to England. I was sorry to hear you had been seedy before you left London.... more...

INTRODUCTION My Dear Boys: This story is complete in itself, but forms the sixth volume in a line issued under the general title of "Putnam Hall Series." As mentioned several times, this line was started because many young folks wanted to know what happened at Putnam Hall Military School previous to the arrival at that institution of the Rover boys, as already related in my "Rover Boys Series." To gratify this curiosity I wrote the first... more...

CHAPTER IPacking "Only one day more," cried Patty Hirst, surveying with deep interest the large new box which stood by the side of the chest of drawers in her bedroom; "just one day! How dreadfully quickly the time has come! I feel quite queer when I think about it. I can scarcely believe that before the end of the week both I and my luggage will be a whole hundred miles away, and settled at Morton Priory. I do wonder how I shall like it?"... more...

The Ingleton Family On a certain morning, just a week before Christmas, the little world of school at Chilcombe Hall was awake and stirring at an unusually early hour. Long before the slightest hint of dawn showed in the sky the lamps were lighted in the corridors, maids were scuttling about, bringing in breakfast, and Jones, the gardener, assisted by his eldest boy, a sturdy grinning urchin of twelve, was beginning the process of carrying down... more...

CHAPTER I SNOW AND SNOWBALLS “Line up, fellows! No crowding ahead in this contest.” “Here, Jack, give me some elbow room if you want me to do any real snowball throwing!” cried Fred Rover. “All the elbow room you want,” returned his cousin gayly. “Remember the prize!” shouted Andy Rover to the cadets who were stringing themselves out in a ragged line. “The first fellow to throw a... more...

CHAPTER I. A NEW BOY. "What's your name?" "Diggory Trevanock." The whole class exploded. "Now, then," said Mr. Blake, looking up from his mark-book with a broad grin on his own face—"now, then, there's nothing to laugh at.—Look here," he added, turning to the new boy, "how d'you spell it?" Instead of being at all annoyed or disconcerted at the mirth of his class-mates, the youngster seemed rather to enjoy the joke, and... more...

"With apologies to gent opposite," said Clowes, "I must say I don't think much of the team." "Don't apologise to me," said Allardyce disgustedly, as he filled the teapot, "I think they're rotten." "They ought to have got into form by now, too," said Trevor. "It's not as if this was the first game of the term." "First game!" Allardyce laughed shortly. "Why, we've only got a couple of club matches and the return match with Ripton to end the... more...

The last of the old Captain. Something unusual is happening at Willoughby. The Union Jack floats proudly over the old ivy-covered tower of the school, the schoolrooms are deserted, there is a band playing somewhere, a double row of carriages is drawn up round the large meadow (familiarly called “The Big”), old Mrs Gallop, the orange and sherbert woman, is almost beside herself with business flurry, and boys are going hither and... more...

A Change. “Yes, she must go to school!” repeated Mr Chester. A plaintive sob greeted his words from the neighbourhood of the sofa. For once in her life Mrs Chester’s kindly, good-tempered face had lost its smiles, and was puckered up into lines of distress. She let one fat, be-ringed hand drop to her side and wander restlessly over the satin skirt in search of a pocket. Presently out came a handkerchief, which was applied to... more...