Talbot Baines Reed (continued 6)

If that were so, what a relief and what a satisfaction it would be! Riddell felt that if Tom himself were the wrong-doer he could almost embrace him, so great would be his joy at knowing that no Willoughby boy was guilty of the crime. But it was too good a notion to be true, and Tom soon dispelled it.

“I tell you,” continued he, vehemently, but looking down so as to avoid the captain’s eye. “I tell you I aren’t done it, there. It’s no use your trying to fix it on me. Do you suppose I wouldn’t know if I’d done it? You blame the right parties, governor, do you hear? I ain’t done it.”

“I never said you did,” replied Riddell, feeling he had by this time got the upper hand in the argument, “but you know who did.”

“There you go. How do I know? I don’t know, and I ain’t done it.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” said Riddell, “the lines could have been cut and you not know it? Don’t you sleep in the boat-house?”

“In course I do—but I ain’t done it, there!”

“Don’t be a young fool, Tom,” said Riddell, sternly. “What I want to know is who did do it.”

“How do you suppose I know?” demanded the boy.

“Who did do it?” again repeated Riddell.

“I don’t know, there!” retorted Tom. “I never see his face.”

“Then some one did come to the boat-house that night?” said Riddell.

“How do I know? Suppose they did?”

“Suppose they did? I want to know who it was.”

“I tell you I don’t know. It was pitch dark, and I ain’t seen his face, there; and what’s more, I don’t know the chap.”

“But you let him into the boat-house?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Tom, whose strong point was evidently not in standing cross-examination. “That’s where you’re wrong again. You’re all wrong.”

“You knew he was there, at any rate,” said Riddell.

“No, I didn’t. You’re wrong agin. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. How could I know he was there, when I worn’t there myself?”

“What! did he get in while you were away?”

“In course he did. Do you suppose I goes to bed like you kids at eight o’clock? No fear. Why, I don’t get my supper at Joe Blades’s till ten.”

“Then you found some one in the boat-house when you went there, after supper, to go to bed?”

“There you are, all wrong agin. How do you suppose I’d find him when he got out of the window?”

“Then he came in and went out by the window?” asked Riddell.

“Why, you don’t suppose he could come down the chimbley, do you?” retorted Tom, scornfully, “and there’s no way else.”

“You had the key of the door all the time, of course,” said Riddell.

“In course. Do you suppose we leaves the boat’us open for anybody as likes to come in without leave?”

“Then it was seeing the window open made you know some one had been in?” continued the captain.

“Wrong agin! Why, you aren’t been right once yet.”

“Do you mean you really saw some one there?”

“How could I see him when he was a-hoppin’ out of the winder just as I comes in? I tell you I didn’t see him. You couldn’t have sor him either, not with all your learnin’.”

“Then you’ve no idea who it was?”

“Ain’t I? that’s all you know.”

“Why, you say you never saw him. Did you hear his voice?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Has some one told you? Has he come and told you himself?”

“No, he ain’t. Wrong agin.”

“Did he leave anything behind that you would know him by, then?”

The boy looked up sharply at Riddell, who saw that he had made a point, and followed it up.

“What did he leave behind? His cap?” he asked.

“His cap! Do you suppose chaps cut strings with their caps? Why, you must be a flat.”

“His knife, was it?” exclaimed Riddell, excitedly. “Was it his knife?”

“There you go; you’re so clever. I as good as tell yer, and then you go on as if you guessed it yourself! You ain’t got as much learnin’ as you think, governor.”

“But was it his knife he left behind?” inquired Riddell, too eager to attend to the sarcasms of his companion.

“What could it ’a been, unless it might be a razor. You don’t cut ropes with your thumb-nails, do you? Of course it was his knife.”

“And have you got it still, Tom?”

Here Tom began to get shy. As long as it was only information that the captain wanted to get at he didn’t so much mind being cross-examined, but directly it looked as if his knife was in peril he bristled up.

“That’ll do,” said he gruffly; “my knife’s nothink to do with you.”

“I know it isn’t, and I don’t want to take it from you. I only want to look at it.”

“Oh, yes; all very fine. And you mean to make out as it’s yourn and you was the chap I saw hoppin’ out of the winder, do yer? I know better. He weren’t your cut, so you needn’t try to make that out.”

“Of course it wasn’t I,” said Riddell, horrified even at the bare suspicion, still more at the idea of any one confessing to such a crime for the sake of getting a paltry knife.

Still Tom was obdurate and would not produce his treasure. In vain Riddell assured him that he made no claim to it, and, even if the knife were his own, would not dream of depriving the boy of it now. Tom listened to it all with an incredulous scowl, and Riddell was beginning to despair of ever setting eyes on the knife, when the boy solved the difficulty of his own accord.

“What do you want to look at it for?” he demanded. “Only to see if I knew whose it was once.”

“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to let yer see it unless you lay a half-a-crown down on that there seat. There! I ain’t a-going to be done by you or any of your scholars.”

Riddell gladly put down the money and had the satisfaction at last of seeing Tom fumble in his pockets for the precious weapon.

It was a long time coming to light, and meanwhile the boy kept a suspicious eye on the money, evidently not quite sure whether, after all, he was safe.

At length from the deepest depth of his trouser pocket his hand emerged, bringing with it the knife.

Had Tom not been so intent on the half-crown which lay on the seat he would have been amazed at the sudden pallor which overspread the captain’s face and the half-suppressed gasp which he gave as his eyes fell on—young Wyndham’s knife!

There was no mistaking it. Riddell knew it well. Wyndham when first he possessed it was never tired of flourishing it proudly before all his acquaintances, and finding some pretext for using it or lending it every five minutes of the day.

Riddell had often had it pressed upon him. Yes, and now, with a shock that was almost sickening, he recollected that he had had it in his hand that very night before the boat-race.

And with the thought there rushed in upon him the whole memory of that evening. How excited, how restless the boy had been, how impossible he had found it to work, how wildly he had talked about the coming race, and how he had set his mind on the schoolhouse boat winning. Riddell remembered every word of it now, and how Wyndham’s excitement had baulked him of his desire for a serious talk that evening. And then he remembered how abruptly the boy had left him, returning hurriedly a moment after for his knife—this very knife which less than two hours afterwards had been dropped on the boat-house floor in the culprit’s hurried retreat by the window!

Riddell felt literally sick as it all rushed through his mind at the sight of the knife in Tom’s hand.

“Have you seen it enough?” demanded the youth, still eyeing the half-crown.

“Yes,” murmured Riddell. And surely he never uttered a truer word.

Tom, startled by his voice, looked up.

“Hullo,” said he, “what’s up? One would think you’d never saw a knife afore!”

Riddell tried feebly to smile and recover himself.

“Tell you what,” said Tom, struck with a brilliant idea—“tell you what, governor. You lay another two bob on the top of that there half-a-crown and it’s your’s. Come!”

Riddell mechanically took out his purse and produced the florin. It was almost the last coin that remained of his pocket-money for that term, but he was too miserable even to think of that.

Tom grabbed at the money eagerly, and deposited the knife in Riddell’s hand in exchange.

Then, with a load on his heart such as he had never felt before, the captain turned the boat’s head and rowed slowly back to Willoughby.

Chapter Twenty Four.

The Rockshire Match.

Riddell was not destined to have much leisure during the next few days for indulging his misery or making up his mind in what direction his duty lay.

As he reached the school after his memorable excursion on the river, he was met by Fairbairn, who had evidently been on the lookout for him.

“Why, where have you been? and what’s wrong?” he exclaimed, as he observed his friend’s dejected looks.

“I’ve been a turn on the river,” replied Riddell, making a desperate effort to recover his wits and look cheerful.

“You look every bit as if you were just starting there to drown yourself,” said Fairbairn; “but, I say, I’ve got a message for you.”

“From whom?” inquired Riddell, who had had quite enough “messages” during the last few days to last him for the rest of the term.

“You’d scarcely guess—from Bloomfield. The thing is, he has two places yet to fill up in the eleven for Saturday, and he wants you to play for one.”

Despite his trouble, Riddell could hardly conceal a smile of pleasure at this honour, which, though not exactly unexpected, he had hardly realised till now.

“Oh, I say,” said he, “I’m certain there are lots of better fellows.”

“You may be quite sure if there had been Bloomfield would have picked them up,” said Fairbairn. “As it happens, we want a slip, and I heard Bloomfield say himself that you are awfully good there. You seem to have hidden your light under a bushel, old man, while in the schoolhouse.”

“I may have been lucky while Bloomfield was watching,” said Riddell.

“All gammon. You needn’t fancy he’s doing this to compliment you, old man. Game and that lot are awfully down on him about it. They’d like to make up the team entirely of Parretts, but it seems they can’t do without us for once! Of course you’ll play.”

“Oh, yes,” said Riddell; “he’s captain of the eleven; I must.”

“Hurrah. Well, you’ll have to turn up at the Big practices, of course, during the next three days. There’s one at three this afternoon and another at 6:30, and if you like to come down for an hour after first school I’ll give you some balls at the nets.”

This was Tuesday. The Rockshire match was to come off on Saturday, and between now and then, as Riddell well knew, every spare moment he could call his own would have to be devoted to cricket.

Personally, with the burden of the secret of young Wyndham’s knife upon him, he would have been glad enough of some excuse for avoiding the honour even of a place in the first eleven. But there was no such excuse. On the contrary, his duty pointed clearly to his making the best of the opportunity. As captain of the school, even a humble place in the first eleven would be an undoubted gain to his influence; while to Welch’s—demoralised Welch’s—the knowledge that once more one of their number was “playing for the school” might be of real service.

Till Saturday, at any rate, he must try to banish the hideous nightmare from his mind, and give himself up wholly to the calls of cricket.

It is easier to resolve to give up one’s mind to a pursuit than it is to do it, and for the first day or two Riddell found himself but a halfhearted cricketer. However, as the eventful day drew near things grew more serious, not to say critical.

It was a nervous occasion for the captain the first time he presented himself at a Big practice, and he could not help feeling that the eyes which watched his performance were more than ordinarily critical, and many of them less than ordinarily friendly.

Still he managed not to disgrace himself, and on the next occasion, having partially recovered his presence of mind, he was able to do himself even more justice. Every one had to admit that Riddell was a long way off being a fine cricketer—he would have been the first to admit it himself—but for all that, what with a quick eye, and much perseverance, and sound judgment, he possessed more than one of the qualities which go to make up a useful member of any team.

“He ought to do,” said Bloomfield to Game on the Friday evening after the last of the practices. “He stood up to Fairbairn’s bowling not at all badly.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Game, whose prejudice was stronger than his judgment, “if Fairbairn bowled down easy to him on purpose; they’re awfully thick, you know.”

“But I didn’t bowl down to him easy,” replied Bloomfield; “and he cut me for two twice running.”

Game could not answer this argument, and was bound to admit a worse man might have been put into the odd place.

“It’s a pity, though; they’ll be so jolly cocky, all that set, there’ll be no enduring it. I only hope our fellows will do most of the scoring to-morrow, and not leave them a chance of saying they won the match for us.”

Bloomfield laughed. “Not much fear of that,” said he; “but if they did, I suppose you’d sooner beat Rockshire with their help than be thrashed?”

Game was not quite sure, and said nothing.

One might have supposed that an occasion like the present, when the picked eleven Willoughby was to play the picked eleven of Rockshire, that there would have been no place left for party rivalry, or any feeling but one of patriotic ardour for the victory of the old school. But so deeply was the disease of party spirit rooted in Willoughby that even this match came to be looked on quite as much as a struggle between rival houses as between the school and an outside team.

The discovery was made that the eleven consisted of five schoolhouse players, five Parrett’s players, and one Welcher. More than that, the ingenious noted the fact that the two best bowlers of the eleven were Bloomfield and Fairbairn, one from each house, who could also both field as wicket-keepers when not bowling. And the two second bowlers were Game and Porter, also one from each house. This minute analysis might doubtless have been continued down to the cover-points. At any rate, it was manifest the two houses were very evenly divided, both as regarded merit and place, and it would therefore be easy to see which contributed most to the service of the school.

The Rockshire men arrived by the ten o’clock train, and were met as usual by the Willoughby omnibus at the station. As they alighted and proceeded to stroll in a long procession across the Big to their tent, they were regarded with much awe and curiosity by the small boys assembled to witness their advent, some of whom were quite at a loss to understand how boys like themselves could ever expect not to be beaten by great whiskered heroes like these. Even the young Welchers, who had contrived to be practising close to the line of march, felt awed in their presence, and made a most hideous hash of the little exhibition with which they had intended to astonish their visitors.

The self-confident ease of these Rockshire men was even a trifle discouraging for a few of the school heroes themselves, who looked on nervously as their rivals coolly went up and inspected the wickets and criticised the pitch, and then proceeded, laughing among themselves, towards the pavilion. Things like this are more or less terrifying, and an old team that comes down to play a young one ought to be more considerate.

It was fortunate for the school team that all its members were not as shy and diffident as others, or the operation of tossing for innings and other matters of form would never have been got through.

Mr Parrett, however, as an old ’Varsity blue, was as great a hero in the sight of Rockshire as Rockshire was in the sight of Willoughby, and with his aid the preliminaries were all arranged, and Willoughby went out first to field.

The Big was never so crowded with boys, masters, or the outside public, as it was on this bright June day. The exploits of the school at the recent election may have had something to do with the number of townsfolk who flocked up to see the game, but apart from that the Rockshire match was always one of the great events of the season.

Last year, thanks to old Wyndham’s prowess, the school had won; but before that, back almost to the days of the mythical Bouncer, the fates had been the other way; and this year, good as the team was, no one had the hardihood to predict with any confidence a victory for the boys.

Just as Riddell was leaving the tent to take his place in the field, young Wyndham came up and clapped him cheerily on the back.

“Go in and win, I say,” he cried, gaily. “I back you, old man.”

It was the first time the two had met since Riddell’s interview with Tom the boat-boy, and the sight of his old friend’s brother, and the sound of his voice just now, gave the captain a shock which for the moment almost unmanned him.

He turned pale as he looked at the boy, and thought of that knife.

“Oh, I say,” said Wyndham, noticing his perturbation, “pull yourself together, old man; you’ll get on all serene. I was funky the first time I showed up for the second-eleven, you know, but it’s all right now!”

“Now, Riddell!” cried Bloomfield, impatiently, from the wickets; and off the captain hurried to his post, with a load of trouble at his heart, and feeling anything but a jubilant athlete.

Wyndham, little dreaming what was passing through his patron’s mind, settled himself cross-legged at the door of the scorer’s tent, and thought of nothing for the next few hours but the match.

The two Rockshire men, upon whom devolved the duty of “opening the ball,” strolled slowly up to the wickets, and a minute later the match had begun.

As usual, the first few overs were uneventful. The bowlers were trying what the batsmen were made of, and the batsmen were trying what the bowlers were made of. Riddell was thankful for his part that no ball came his way, and the spectators generally seemed to regard two maiden overs as a sort of necessary infliction at the opening of any big match.

But when Bloomfield took the ball again it was evident things were to grow a little brisker. His first ball was very neatly patted towards square-leg for two, amid the cheers which always greet “the first blood,” and his next ball slipped past the long-stop for a bye. Wyndham and some other enthusiasts sighed, as if those three runs had settled the fate of Willoughby. But his sigh was abruptly turned into a cheer when next moment the Rockshire man’s wicket tumbled all of a heap, and one of the foe was out for three.

Willoughby began to breathe again. When they had seen those two portentous heroes go in, the prospect of their ever going out had seemed fearfully remote. But now, if one man was got rid of for only three runs, why should not ten men go for only thirty? At which arithmetical discovery the school immediately leapt from the depths of despondency to the heights of confidence, and considered the match as good as won before it was fairly begun.

However, during the next half-hour they had time to seek the happy mean between the two extremes. The newcomer was a tough customer, and should certainly have gone in first. For he was one of those aggravating batsmen who keep a steady bat at everything, who never aspire to a slog, never walk out to a slow, never step back to a yorker, are never too soon for a lob, or too late for a shooter—in fact, who play the safe plodding game in the face of all temptation.

The one comfort was, he did not make many runs. Still, this sort of business is demoralising for bowlers and slow for the field, and a change of bowlers was consequently decided upon after about half an hour’s play, when the score was at twenty-one.

Game and Porter were the two new hands, the latter being the first to officiate with a very neat maiden over, loudly cheered from the school tent. Game who followed, was not so fortunate. The Rockshire man who had gone in first cut him hard for three on his second ball—the first hard hit of the match. And this the steady man followed up with a quiet two neatly placed between point and mid-off. Then came another ball, which the same player turned off sharply into the slips.

It was a fairly difficult ball to field, but Riddell picked it up smartly and returned it to the wickets in time to prevent a run being made.

“Well fielded indeed, sir!” cried Wyndham’s voice from the tent. Little thought he how strangely those words of encouragement missed their mark. Riddell had just been forgetting his trouble and warming up to the game, and now they came once more to remind him of that hated knife and Tom the boat-boy’s story.

The next ball the Rockshire man also “slipped,” but this time, though it was within easier reach, and for a first-rate fielder was even a possible catch, Riddell missed it, and two runs were made. “Look out there!” cried Bloomfield severely. “Well tried, sir!” cried some one, sarcastically. “Well missed, sir!” cried some one else, with painful truthfulness. Riddell saw the crisis. Another miss like that, a few more taunts like those, and he might as well retire from the field.

Not for the first time in his life he pulled himself together with a vehement effort and shook off every thought but the one duty that claimed him.

And only just in time.

The last ball of the over was played again into slip, this time very smartly. The school shivered as they saw it whiz straight for the weak point. But they might have spared themselves their agitation, for Riddell had it—all but a catch—before the shiver was over, and had returned it to Fairbairn at the wickets promptly enough to make the Rockshire man feel he had had a narrow escape of a run-out.

“Fielded, sir!” said Bloomfield, as the players crossed over; and this commendation was more encouraging than all the shouts of the schoolhouse partisans.

Porter’s next over disposed of the first Rockshire man, amid great school rejoicing, which was only tempered by the reflection among the Parretts that it was a wicket to the credit of the schoolhouse half of the eleven.

Then followed a succession of short but smart innings, during which the Rockshire score crawled up to seventy, despite of a further change of bowlers and very careful all-round fielding by the school.

All this time the steady man hung on obstinately; nothing seemed to puzzle him or tempt him out of his caution.

At length, in sheer desperation, Coates was put on to bowl; anything seemed better than this hopeless deadlock. And so it turned out. Coates’s first ball came down temptingly towards the off stump. Any enterprising player would have cut it for a safe four, but this cautious hand, who seemed to smell a rat in everything, was evidently determined not to be taken in by first appearances, and turned it off, half contemptuously, to his favourite quarter among the slips, thinking possibly he might punish the next rather more freely. But the next was not to come for him. Coates’s ball was rising a bit as the batsman touched it, and though he did not hit it up, it yet spun a foot or so above the ground, an easy catch, straight into Riddell’s hand, who held it fast, much to his own surprise, and greatly to the jubilation of all Willoughby.

“Well caught, sir! Caught, indeed! Played up, Riddell!” were the cries which on all hands greeted the achievement, Wyndham’s call being longest and loudest of them all.

But this time Riddell suffered no harm from the sound of that familiar voice. He had steeled himself against it for a few hours at least, and it was to him but one out of many.

Rockshire’s first innings terminated shortly with no further event of note. The last wicket fell for ninety-two, a respectable total, of which fifty-nine had been made off the Parretts’ batsmen, and thirty-three off the schoolhouse. Indeed, the advantage of the schoolhouse did not end there. Out of three catches—not counting Riddell’s—they had made two, while of the five wickets which had been taken by the bowling, they claimed three against their rivals’ two.

Great was the dismay of Parrett’s as these results were made known. They buoyed themselves up greatly, however, with the prospect of the batting, where it would be strange indeed if they did not score better than the schoolhouse. And after all, it is the runs that win a match.

Bloomfield himself, be it said to his credit, allowed no petty considerations of party rivalry to influence him in sending in the best men at the right time. However much in some ways he might lend himself to the whims of his more energetic comrades, in a matter like the Rockshire match, where he was in sole command, and responsible for the glory of the school, he acted with the sole object of winning the match.

It would have been easy to send in Fairbairn and Porter last, when they would have no chance of scoring; or Coates, who was a rash hitter, and never was safe until the back of the bowling had been somewhat broken, might have been sent in first.

But such an arrangement Bloomfield knew would be fatal for the chances of the school, and it therefore never entered his head to contrive it. And his fairness in this respect was fully justified, for the school put together a hundred and twelve runs—just twenty more than their opponents—a performance which not even the most sanguine Willoughbite had dared to anticipate. Towards this total Riddell, who had gone in last and carried his bat, had contributed seven, not a little to his own surprise and the delight of the onlooking Welchers. But the most remarkable thing about the innings was that, contrary to all calculation, the five schoolhouse fellows had contributed no less than sixty-four runs to the total, while the Parretts’ united score only amounted to forty-one.

The second innings of Rockshire differed very little from the first. The steady man went in first, and bothered every bowler the school could bring against him; and, having had one lesson, he took good care not to give himself another, and rather avoided slip for the future. So that Riddell had a quiet time of it, fielding the few balls that came to him steadily and promptly, but otherwise not figuring prominently in the downfall of any wicket.

It was half-past four before Rockshire finally retired with a total for their second innings of ninety-nine, leaving the school boys with eighty runs to obtain to win.

It was not a formidable total after their first-innings performance, but at the outset a calamity happened enough to depress the hopes of any Willoughbite.

Bloomfield had gone in first with every intention of breaking the ice effectually for his side. What, therefore, was the consternation of everybody when, after neatly blocking the first ball, he was clean bowled for a duck’s-egg by the second! Willoughby literally howled with disappointment, and gave itself up to despair as it saw its captain and champion retreating slowly back to the tent, trailing his bat behind him, and not daring to look up at the hideous “0” on the telegraph board.

But hope was at hand, though Parrett’s was not to supply it. Coates and Crossfield, who were now together, made a most unexpected and stubborn stand. They even scored freely, and the longer they held together the harder it was to part them. The reviving hopes of the Rockshire partisans gradually died out before this awkward combination, and Game and Ashley and Tipper, as they sat and watched this spirited performance by the two schoolhouse boys, felt their triumph for the school utterly swamped in the still more signal victory which the despised house was achieving over them.

The score, amid terrific cheering, went up to fifty-two before a separation could be effected. Then Coates was caught at long-leg, and retired, covered with glory, in favour of Tipper.

Alas for Parrett’s! Tipper, in whom their forlorn hopes rested, was run out during his first over, while attempting to snatch a bye!

It was an anxious moment while Bloomfield was deciding whom next to send in. There was still thirty runs to make, but unless he took care the whole innings might be muddled away in the getting of them.

“You go in, Fairbairn,” said the captain.

The Parretts felt their fate to be sealed hopelessly. Had Game been sent in he might still have done something for Parrett’s, but now his chance might never come.

It did not come. Fairbairn joined Crossfield, and the two did just what they liked with the bowling. As the score shot up from fifty to sixty and from sixty to seventy, the school became perfectly hoarse with cheering. Even most of the partisans of Parrett’s, sorely as the match was going against them, could not help joining in the applause now that the prospect of the school winning by seven wickets had become a probability.

Up went the score—another three for Fairbairn—another two for Crossfield—seventy-five—then next moment a terrific cheer greeted a four by Fairbairn, which brought the numbers equal; and before the figures were well registered another drive settled the question, and Willoughby had beaten Rockshire by seven wickets!

Chapter Twenty Five.

“Am I My Brother’s Keeper?”

The evening of the Rockshire match was one of strangely conflicting emotions in Willoughby.

In the schoolhouse the jubilation was beyond bounds, and the victory of the school was swallowed up in the glorious exploits of the five schoolhouse heroes, who had, so their admirers declared, as good as won the match among them, and had vindicated themselves from the reproach of degeneracy, and once for all wiped away the hateful stigma of the boat-race. The night was spent till bedtime in one prolonged cheer in honour of their heroes, who were glad enough to hide anywhere to escape the mobbing they came in for whenever they showed their faces.

In Parrett’s house the festivities were of a far more subdued order. As Willoughbites they were, of course, bound to rejoice in the victory of the old school. But at what cost did they do it? For had not that very victory meant also the overthrow of their reign in Willoughby. No reasoning or excusing could do away with the fact that after all their boasting, and all their assumed superiority, they had taken considerably less than half the wickets, secured considerably less than a third of the catches, and scored considerably less than a quarter of the runs by which the match had been won. Their captain had been bowled for a duck’s-egg. Their best bowlers had been knocked about by the very batsmen whom the schoolhouse bowlers had dispatched with ease.

It was vain to attempt to account for it, to assert that the schoolhouse had had the best of the luck: that the light had favoured them; or that just when they happened to bowl the Rockshire men had got careless. Even such stick-at-nothing enthusiasts as Parson, Bosher, and Co., couldn’t make a case of it, and were forced to admit with deep mortification that the glory had departed from Parrett’s, at any rate for a season.

Perhaps the most patriotic rejoicings that evening were in Welch’s house. They cared but little about the rivalry between Parrett’s, and the schoolhouse, and were therefore free to exult as Willoughbites pure and simple, bestowing, of course, a special cheer on their own man, Riddell, who, though not having performed prodigies, had yet done honest work for his eleven, and at any rate made one smart catch.

“I tell you what,” said Fairbairn, who along with Coates and Porter had escaped from the violent applause of the schoolhouse and sought refuge that evening in the captain’s study—“I tell you what, I’m getting perfectly sick of this everlasting schoolhouse against Parrett business.”

“So am I,” said Porter. “As if they need go into the sulks because our fellows did better than they did!”

“They’ve brought it on themselves, anyhow,” said Coates, “and it may do them good to have to sing small for once.”

“I’m afraid if it had been the other way our fellows would have been just as much cut up as theirs are,” said Fairbairn. “Upon my word I half envy you, Riddell, old man, being a Welcher.”

Riddell smiled.

“Our fellows certainly consider themselves free to abuse or cheer all round, without the least partiality. Listen to them now.”

And certainly the hubbub that was going on was a trifle outrageous, even for Welchers.

Indeed it was so outrageous that Riddell was obliged to ask his visitors to excuse him for a moment while he went and quieted them.

As he opened the door of the preparation-room, where the house was assembled, a louder cheer than ever arose in his honour; and then those who waited in the study heard a general lull in the noise, which continued in subdued animation after he had left the scene and returned to his friends.

This casual illustration of the captain’s influence in his new house was quite a revelation to the three schoolhouse monitors.

“Why, what do you do to them to shut them up like that?” asked Coates, with something like envy in his tones. “It takes half an hour’s bawling to stop a row like that in our house, and a licking or two into the bargain; doesn’t it, you fellows?”

Riddell laughed.

“They are cricket-mad at present,” said he, “and I suppose they’re afraid of having their match against Parrett’s stopped.”

It was a modest way, no doubt, of accounting for their obedience to his authority; but whatever the reason might be, it was certain the captain had no further occasion to interfere that evening.

“There’s one comfort about this match,” said Fairbairn, after a pause, “we probably shall not hear any more of that wretched boat-race now.”

Whatever induced him to start this most unfortunate topic at this time of all others?

Riddell, who amid all the excitement of the match had contrived partially to forget the burden that lay on his spirit, started uncomfortably at the words, and his face changed to one of undisguised trouble. The others could hardly help noticing it.

“No, we’re never likely to get at the bottom of it,” said Porter; “so the sooner it drops the better.”

“It’s very odd, all the same,” said Fairbairn, “that there’s not been a single hint as to who did it. I wonder if, perhaps, we were wrong in taking for granted it was more than an accident.”

This last question was addressed to Riddell, who replied, nervously and uneasily, “No, that is, yes. It can’t have been. I’m sure it wasn’t an accident.”

His three friends looked perplexed by his sudden confusion and change of manner, and Porter had the presence of mind to change the subject.

“I hear there’s a jolly row on between Silk and Gilks,” said he. “No one knows exactly why.”

“I heard it was a bet,” said Coates.

“At any rate they’ve had a split,” said Porter.

“They never did much good while they were in partnership,” said Coates. “Young Wyndham got rather drawn in by them, I heard.”

“Rather!” said Fairbairn. “He was precious near going to the dogs altogether if old Riddell here hadn’t pulled him up.”

Riddell seemed to lack spirit to join in the conversation, which continued without him.

“Yes, the young ’un cuts them dead now,” said Porter, “but he’s a bit afraid of them still, I fancy.”

“I suppose they could let out upon him about some scrape or other,” said Coates, “and that’s what gives them a pull.”

“Anyhow, it’s a good job he has pulled up,” said Fairbairn, “for he’s not a bad youngster. He’s got into the second-eleven just lately, and is tremendously proud of it. He’s vowed he’ll get old Wyndham to come down and umpire in the match with Templeton second-eleven next month.”

All this talk was anything but pleasant for poor Riddell. Little did the speakers dream of the connection between the boat-race and young Wyndham; in fact, the latter topic, as he knew quite well, had been started on purpose to get over the awkwardness which his own confusion about the former had caused.

But to Riddell, with that knife burning in his pocket, it was all one prolonged torture, so that he was heartily glad when at length his friends rose to depart.

He excused himself from walking across the quadrangle with them, and said good-night in a spiritless way, very different from the cheery manner in which he had welcomed them an hour ago.

“I never saw such a rum fellow as Riddell,” said Coates, as the three strolled over. “Did you see how cut up he got when something was said about the boat-race?”

“He’s a little cracked on that subject,” said Fairbairn. “I do believe, until the culprit is found out, he considers himself responsible for the whole affair.”

“Well, to judge by his looks he might have been the culprit himself,” said Porter, laughing. “Hullo, here’s young Wyndham.”

“Where are you off to?” asked Fairbairn, with due monitorial solemnity, of that flighty youth; “don’t you know it’s nearly eight?”

“Oh, do you mind my going across to Riddell’s?” asked the boy; “he’ll think I’ve cut him if I don’t show up. I’ve not been to his room for half a week.”

“It’s a curious thing he has survived it so long,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “Mind you are back by 8:30, though, for I’ll have lock-up punctual to-night, while there’s so much row going on.”

“Thanks, Fairbairn,” said Wyndham. “I say, what a stunning score our house knocked up in the second innings. Why, we—”

“Cut off,” cried Fairbairn, “and tell Riddell all about it. Come on, you fellows.”

Wyndham hurried on full of the prospect of a talk over the match with Riddell.

Just at the door of Welch’s, however, he met Silk.

The two had scarcely met since the day of the election, when Wyndham, to spite Riddell, had joined himself to this bad friend, and yielded to his persuasion to go down, against leave, to Shellport.

“Oh, young ’un,” said Silk, in friendly tones, “you turned up? I’d almost given you up for good.”

“I’m going to Riddell’s,” said Wyndham, determined for once to stand by his colours and have nothing more to do with this tempter.

Silk’s face fell, as it always did when Riddell’s name was mentioned. He had imagined the boy was coming to see him, and it did not please him to find himself mistaken.

“Are you?” said he. “Come along to my study first, though; I want to speak to you.”

“I can’t come, thank you,” said Wyndham.

“Can’t! Why ever not?” exclaimed Silk.

“I don’t want to come, that’s why,” said Wyndham, doggedly, and attempting to move past.

But this by no means suited Silk.

“Suppose I tell you you must come,” demanded he, stepping in front of the boy with a menacing air.

“Please let me go by,” repeated Wyndham, making another attempt.

“Not till you tell me what you mean by saying you won’t do as I tell you.”

“I mean that I’m not going to your study,” said young Wyndham.

“Oh, very well,” said Silk, standing back to let him pass.

There was something in his tone and manner as he said the words which made Wyndham uneasy. He had made up his mind at all costs he would break with Silk; yet now he could not help remembering he was at the fellow’s mercy.

So, instead of going on, he stood where he was, and said, rather less defiantly, “Can’t you say what you’ve got to say here?”

“Oh, of course. I can easily tell the whole school of your—”

“Oh, hush, please!” cried the boy in alarm; “you promised you wouldn’t tell any one. I’ll come to your study.”

Silk, with a triumphant sneer, turned and led the way, followed by his chafing victim, who devoutly wished he had never thought of coming to see Riddell at all.

When they were in the study, Silk turned and said, “All I want to say is, that, I don’t choose for you to be going such a lot to Riddell. I don’t like him, and you’d better keep away.”

“Why?” faltered Wyndham. “It doesn’t do you any harm.”

“How do I know you don’t blab all my secrets to him, eh?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do it for anything. I promised you and Gilks.”

“Bah! what’s the use of that? You go and tell him everything you do yourself, and of course he knows it means us as well as you.”

“No, he doesn’t—really. I’ve never said a word to him about—about Beamish’s.”

“It’s a good job you haven’t; and you’d better not, I can tell you.”

“I won’t,” said the boy.

“I don’t choose to have my concerns talked about to anybody,” said Silk, “I suppose it was he put you up to cutting me.”

“No—that is,” said Wyndham, “yes, he did advise me not to be so much with Gilks and you.”

“He did?” exclaimed Silk, in a rage. “I thought so; and you—”

Fortunately at this moment Tucker and one or two other of the noisy Welchers broke into the room; and in the diversion so created Wyndham was thankful to slip away.

This, then, was the end of his good resolutions and the hopes they had fostered! He was as much in the power of this bad friend as ever—nay, more, for had he not that very evening been forced to renew the one promise which kept him from confiding everything to Riddell?

He proceeded dejectedly to the captain’s study, his cricket enthusiasm strangely damped, and the load of his old short-comings heavy upon him.

Riddell, who was pacing the room moodily, stopped in a half-startled way as his visitor entered.

“Do you want me?” he said.

“No,” said Wyndham. “I only just came across to see you, because I thought you’d wonder what had become of me.”

“Yes,” said Riddell, trying to compose himself, “with all this cricket practice there’s not been much chance of seeing one another.”

“No,” replied Wyndham, whom the very mention of cricket was enough to excite. “I say, wasn’t it an awfully fine licking we gave them? Our fellows are crowing like anything, and, you know, if it hadn’t been for your catch it might have been a much more narrow affair.”

“Ah, well! it’s all over now,” said Riddell; “so I suppose you’ll come and see me oftener?”

“I hope so. Of course, there’s the second-eleven practices still going on for the Templeton match, but I’ll turn up here all the same.”

Riddell took a turn or two in silence. What was he to do? A word from him, he felt, could ruin this boy before all Willoughby, and possibly disgrace him for life.

He, Riddell, as captain of the school, seemed to have a clear duty in the matter. Had the culprit been any one else—had it been Silk, for instance, or Gilks—would he have hung back? He knew he would not, painful as the task would be. The honour of the school was in question, and he had no right to palter with that.

Yet how could he deal thus with young Wyndham?—his friend’s brother, the fellow he cared for most in Willoughby, over whose struggles he had watched so anxiously, and for whom, now, better resolves and honest ambitions were opening up so cheery a prospect. How could he do it?

Was there no chance that after all he might be mistaken? Alas! that cruel knife and the memory of that evening crushed out the hope. What could he do? To do nothing would be simply adding his own crime to that of another. If only the boy would confess voluntarily! Could that have possibly been the object which brought him there that evening? The last time they had talked together, even in the midst of his contrition, he had been strangely reserved about something in the past. Might not this be the very secret he had now come to confide?

“How have you been getting on the last week?” he asked, gravely. “Have you been able to keep pretty straight?”

“Yes, I hope so,” said Wyndham. “You see, this cricket doesn’t give a fellow much chance of going wrong.”

“No; but of course one needs to do more than merely not go wrong,” said the captain.

“What do you mean?”

“I suppose when any of us has done wrong we ought to try to make up for it somehow.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Wyndham, feeling a little uncomfortable. “The worst of it is, you can’t always do that except by keeping right in future.”

“Supposing you had owed some fellow a sovereign last term, you would consider that all you had to do was not to owe him any more this term?” said Riddell.

“No; of course not! I’d have to pay him, I know,” said Wyndham.

“Well, what I mean,” said the captain, “is that—that—why, the fact is, Wyndham,” said he, “I’m afraid you have still some old scores you ought to clear up.”

Wyndham looked hard at the captain, and coloured.

“I see what you mean,” he said, in a low voice. “I know you’re right. I wish I could do it.”

“You wish!” exclaimed Riddell. “Wishing will not do it.”

Wyndham looked hard at him once more, and answered, in agitated tones.

“I say, Riddell. Do you know about it, then?”

“I think I do.”

At that moment a bell began to sound across the quadrangle.

“That’s lock-up; I must go!” exclaimed Wyndham, wildly. “For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one, Riddell! Oh what a fool I have been!”

And next moment he was gone.

Riddell continued to pace the room, half stupefied with bewilderment and misery.

“For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one!” The cry rang in his ears till it drove him nearly mad.

Poor Wyndham! What must his state of mind be? What must it have been all this time, with that miserable secret lurking there and poisoning his whole life? And yet the chance had been given him, and he had clung to the secret still, and in the face of discovery had no other cry than this, “For goodness’ sake, don’t tell any one!”

That evening, so jubilant all over Willoughby, was one of the most wretched Riddell ever spent.

Chapter Twenty Six.

An Explosion of “SkyRockets.”

Parson, Bosher, King, and the other Parrett’s juniors were in bad spirits. It was not so much the Rockshire match that was preying on the brotherhood, grievous as that blow had been. Nor were they at the present suffering under any particular infliction, or smarting under any special sense of injustice. Their healths and digestions were all tolerably good, and the mutual friendship in which they had been wont to rejoice showed no signs of immediate dissolution.

The fact was, they didn’t know exactly what was the matter with themselves. They could not pretend that it was remorse for the little amount of work they had done during the term, for they stoutly denied that they had done little. On the contrary, they insisted that they were being crammed to a shameful extent.

Nor was their conscience reproaching them for their past transgressions. Of course, they could not help admitting that they had occasionally got into rows lately, but, as every one knew, it was never their fault. It had always been owing to some accident or piece of bad luck, and it was quite enough to get punished for it, without being expected to reproach themselves for it.

No. When they came to think of it they didn’t see that they had anything to reproach themselves with. On the whole, they were more to be pitied than blamed. They invariably meant well, but they never got any credit for their good intentions, while they were everlastingly getting into trouble on account of their ill-luck!

The fact of the matter was, these virtuous young gentlemen were suffering from that most painful of maladies—dulness.

They had nothing to do—that is, they had nothing to do but work and play cricket. The latter was all very well, but even cricket, when it means three practices a day presided over by a strict senior, gets to be a little wearisome.

As for the work—they groaned as they thought of it. It hadn’t been so bad at the beginning of the term, when Bosher’s crib to the Caesar and Wakefield’s key to Colenso’s arithmetic had lent them their genial aid. But ever since Mr Parrett, in the vindictiveness of his heart, had suddenly started Eutropius in the place of Caesar, and Todhunter in the place of Colenso, life had barely been worth living.

It was this last grievance which was the special topic of discussion at an informal tea-party held, about a week after the Rockshire match, in Parson’s study.

The company solaced their wounded feelings with unlimited bloater-paste and red-currant jam, and under the soothing influence of these condiments, aided by the watery contents of Parson’s teapot, their sorrows found relief in words.

“I bet anything he pitched on Eutropius,” said Parson, with his cup to his lips, “because he knows nobody ever wrote a crib to him.”

“I don’t suppose any one could make him out enough,” said King. “It’s awful rot.”

“Yes, and Ashley says it’s awfully bad Latin.”

Parson laughed satirically.

“Jolly lot they care what sort of Latin it is as long as they can do us over it.”

“I believe,” said Bosher, “Gilks has a key to Todhunter.”

“He has? Young Telson had better collar it, then,” said King, whose opinions on the laws of property as regarded cribs were lax.

“Bah! What’s the use of bothering?” cried Parson, pouring himself out his eighth cup of tea. “If he pulls me up for not doing the beastly things I shall tell him they’re too hard, straight out.”

“Tell him it’s jolly gross conduct,” cried a voice at the door, followed immediately by Telson, who, contrary to all rules, had slipped across to pay a friendly visit.

He was welcomed with the usual rejoicing, and duly installed at the festive board.

“It’s all right if I am caught,” said he. “Gilks sent me a message to Wibberly, and I just dropped in here on the way. I say, who’s going to lick, you or Welch’s?”

“Welch’s!” exclaimed the company, in general contempt. “It’s like their cheek to challenge us. We mean to give them a lesson.”

“Mind you do,” said Telson, “or it’ll be jolly rough on Parrett’s. No end of a poor show you made at the Rockshire.”

“Look here, Telson,” said Parson, gravely, “suppose we don’t talk about that. We were just wondering if Gilks had got a key to Todhunter somewhere.”

Telson laughed.

“Wonder if he hadn’t! He’s got more cribs than school books, I think.”

“I say,” said King, most persuasively, “could you collar it, do you think, old man!”

“Eh? No,” said Telson; “I draw the line at that sort of thing, you know.”

“Well, then,” said King, evidently in a state of desperate mental agitation, “could you ever find out the answer for Number 13 in Exercise 8, and let me know it in the morning? I’d be awfully obliged.”

Telson said he would see, whereat King was most profuse in his gratitude, and Telson received several other commissions of a similar nature.

These little matters of business being satisfactorily settled, the company proceeded to the discussion of more general topics.

“Fearful slow term this,” said Parson, with a yawn.

“Yes,” said Telson, spreading a piece of bread with about a quarter-of-an-inch layer of jam; “we’re somehow done out of everything this term.”

“Yes. We can’t go out on the river; we can’t go into town; we can’t go and have a lark in Welch’s; you can’t come over to see us—”

“No; that’s a howling shame!” said Telson.

“We can’t do anything, in fact,” continued Parson (now at cup Number 9). “Why, we haven’t had a spree for weeks.”

“You seemed to think my diary was a spree,” said Bosher, meekly.

There was a general laugh at this.

“By the way, have you got it here?”

“No fear! I’ll take good care you don’t see it again, you cads!”

“Eh? By the way, that reminds me we never paid Bosher out for being a Radical, you fellows,” said Parson.

“Oh, no—oh, yes, you did!” cried Bosher. “I apologise, you fellows. I’ll let you see the diary, you know, some day. Really, I’m not a Radical.”

Fortunately for Bosher, the political excitement at Willoughby had quite worn away, so that no one now felt it his duty to execute the sentence of the law upon him and, after being made to apologise on his knees to each of the company in turn, he was solemnly let off.

“You see,” said Parson, returning to the point, “we’ve been up before Parrett twice this term; that’s the mischief. We might have chanced a spree of some sort, only if we get pulled up again he may expel us.”

There was some force in this argument, and it was generally agreed it would be better for Willoughby that the risk of a calamity like this should not be incurred.

“Fact is,” said Telson, cutting another slice of bread, “Willoughby’s going to the dogs as hard as it can. The seniors in our house are down on you if you do anything. I even got pulled up the other day for having a duel with young Payne with elastics. Awful spree it was! We gave one another six yards, and six shots each. I got on to his face four times, and once on his ear, and he only hit me twice. One of mine was right in his eye, and there was a shindy made, and I got sixty lines from Fairbairn.”

“What a frightful shame!” cried the company. “Yes,” said King; “and it’s just as bad here. The new monitors pull you up for everything. You can’t even chuck boots about in the passage but they are down on you. It was bad enough when Game and that lot were monitors, but ever since they’ve been turned out and the new chaps stuck in it’s worse.”

“And they say it’s just as bad in Welch’s,” said Wakefield. “You know,” said Parson, profoundly, pouring himself out a fresh cup—“you know, if Riddell and Bloomfield ever took it into their heads to pull together, we’d have an awful time of it.”

The bare possibility of such a calamity was enough to sober even the wildest spirit present.

“These seniors are a nuisance,” said Telson, after a pause; “and the worst of it is, we can’t well pay them out.”

“Not in school, or in the Big either,” said King. “We might stick nettles in their beds, you know,” suggested Bosher, “or something of that sort.”

“Rather low, that,” said Parson, “and not much fun.”

“Would leeches be better?” said Bosher, who had lately been giving himself to scientific investigation.

It was considered leeches might not be bad, but there was rather too much uncertainty about their mode of action. That was a sort of thing more in Cusack’s and the Welchers’ line than the present company’s.

“I tell you what,” said Telson, struck with an idea, “we might get at them in Parliament; they’re always so jolly fond of talking about fair play there, and every one being equal. Do you know, I think we might have a little fling there!”

“Not at all a bad idea,” said Parson, admiringly—“jolly fine idea! We can do what those cads do in the newspapers—obstruct the business! Rattling idea!”

“Yes; and fancy Messrs Telson, Parson, Bosher, and Co. being suspended,” said King.

“They couldn’t do it, I tell you,” said Bosher; “we’d kick up a shine about freedom of speech, and all that. Anyhow, it would be rather a spree, whether we were kicked out or not. We’d be a ‘party’ you know!”

The idea took, and an animated consultation took place. Parson, for a junior, was very well up in the “rules of the House,” and at his suggestion the notice-paper for to-morrow’s assembly was got hold of and filled with “amendments.”

“Call them amendments,” said he, “and they can’t say anything.”

“Oh, all serene,” said Telson, who had implicit confidence in his friend.

“For instance, here you are,” said Parson. “‘Mr Coates to move that Classics is a nobler study than Mathematics.’ Amendment proposed: ‘Instead of “nobler” say “viler.”’ Proposed by Bosher, further amendment: ‘Instead of “nobler” say “beastlier.”’ Proposed by Telson—(‘Hear, hear,’ from Telson)—further amendment: ‘Instead of “nobler” say “more idiotic.”’ You see it can easily be worked, and when we’ve done with ‘nobler’ we can start on the ‘is’ and amend it to ‘are,’ do you twig? There’ll have to be a division over each. I say it’ll be an awful lark!”

Little dreaming of the delightful treat in store for it, Willoughby assembled next afternoon, expecting nothing better than a dull debate on the well-worn question of classics versus mathematics. They were destined to experience more than one surprise before the meeting was over.

Riddell, who had spent a dismal day, not knowing what to do or think, and vainly hoping that Wyndham might by his own free confession solve the bitter problem, came to the meeting. It was the least wretched thing he could do. Anything was better than sitting alone and brooding over his secret.

For the first time he received a cheer as he entered and took his accustomed place. Willoughby was grateful to him for that catch in the Rockshire match. How, at any other time, the captain would have rejoiced over that cheer! But now he hardly heard it.

All the other heroes of the match received a similar ovation in proportion to the service they had done, and when, just at the last moment, Fairbairn, Coates, and Crossfield came in together, the “House” rose at them and cheered tremendously.

The business was preceded by the usual questions, none of which, however, were very important. After the captain’s performance last week, and perhaps still more after his speech in the House a week or two ago, honourable men had shown themselves less active in “baiting” him and asking him offensive questions, and on this occasion he was only interrogated once, and that was by Cusack, who wanted to know whether they were not going to get a whole holiday in honour of the Rockshire match? The captain replied that he had heard nothing about it.

Bosher was put up to ask Bloomfield whether he considered Eutropius fit reading for young boys? Loud cheers from all the small boys in question greeted the inquiry, in the midst of which Bloomfield cunningly replied that the honourable member had better give notice of the question for next time.

Then rose Telson, with all the dignity of office, and solemnly inquired of Mr Stutter, the Premier, whether he was aware that a new party had lately been formed in the House, consisting of Messrs Telson, Parson, Bosher, King, and Wakefield, called the “Skyrockets,” whose object was to look after the interests of the juniors all over the school, and who would be glad to receive fresh members at one shilling a head?

Stutter, who was scarcely heard in the uproar which followed this sensational announcement, meekly replied that he had not heard a word about it, an answer which, for some reason or other, provoked almost as much laughter as the question.

“All very well for them to grin,” growled Telson, who had expected a somewhat different reception to his important question: “wait till we start on the amendments.”

The opportunity soon arrived. Coates being called upon to open the debate, let off the speech he had prepared, and if he did not convince the House that classics was a nobler study than mathematics, he at least showed that he had convinced himself.

The “Skyrockets” had barely the patience to hear him out, and the moment he had done, Parson started to his feet, and shouted, “Mr Chairman and gentlemen, I beg to move an amendment—”

Here Bloomfield, whom the sight of the notice-paper had prepared for what was coming, interposed, “When I am ready for the honourable member I will call on him. The motion is not yet seconded.”

“No, no! That won’t wash, will it, you fellows?” cried Parson, excitedly, planting himself firmly in his place, and evidently seeing through the deep designs of the enemy. “Bother seconding! I mean to move my amendment, if I stick here all night! (Terrific Skyrocket cheers.) We kids have been snubbed long enough, and we’re going to make a stand!” (“Question,” “Order.”) “All very well for you to sing out ‘Order’—”

The Chairman:

“Will the honourable member—”

“No, he won’t!” screamed Parson, with the steam well up; “and he’s not going to! I’ve got a right to be heard—we’ve all got a right to be heard, and we’re going to be heard, what’s more! (Tremendous cheers from the club.) We’re all equal here, aren’t we, you chaps?” (“Rather!”)

Here Fairbairn rose to order, but Parson was too quick for him.

“No, no!” he cried, “we don’t want any of your jaw! We’re not going to be shut up by you! We’re a party, I tell you, and we’re bound to stick out!” (“Hear, hear,” from Bosher.) “We expected you’d be trying to sit on us, but we made up our minds we won’t be sat on! (Prolonged cheers.) I’ve not begun my speech yet—(laughter)—and I don’t mean to till you hold your rows!”

Here there were loud cries of “Order” from various parts of the House, which, however, only served to inspirit the speaker, who proceeded at the top of his voice, “It’s no use your going on like that. (I say, you chaps,” added he, turning round to his companions, “back me up, I’m getting husky.) You think we’re a lot of fools—”

(“We’re a lot of fools!” chimed in the chorus, by way of backing up their orator.)

“But we’re not as green as we look!”

(“Green as we look!”)

“You all seem to think it funny!”

(“Think it funny!”)

“But you needn’t think you’ll shut us up!”

(“Shut us up!”)

Here another attempt was made on the part of the chairman to reduce the meeting to order. Above the laughter and cheering and hooting he cried at the top of his voice, “Unless you stop your foolery, Parson, I’ll have you turned out!”

“Will you? Who’s going to stop my foolery?” yelled Parson.

(“Stop my foolery?”) howled the chorus.

“Try it on, that’s all! You don’t think we funk you!”

(“We funk you!”)

“Do you suppose we don’t know what we’re doing?”

(“We don’t know what we’re doing?”)

“Look out, you fellows! Hold on!”

This last remark was caused by a rush upon the devoted band, with a view to carry out the edict of the chairman.

Parson went on with his oration till he was secured, hand and foot, and carried forcibly to the door, and even then continued to address the house, struggling and kicking between every syllable. His backers, equally determined, clung on to the forms and desks, and continued to shout and scream and caterwaul till they were one by one ejected.

Even then they maintained their noble stand for freedom of speech by howling through the key-hole and kicking at the door, till finally a select band of volunteers was dispatched “to clear the approaches to the House” and drive the Skyrockets to their own distant studies, where they organised a few brawls on their own account, and ended the afternoon very hoarse, very tired, but by no means cast down.

“Jolly spree, wasn’t it?” said Parson, when it was all over, fanning himself with a copybook and readjusting his collar.

“Stunning!” said Telson; “never thought they’d stand it so long. No end of a speech, that of yours!”

“Yes,” said Parson, complacently; “most of it impromptu, too! Managed to spin it out, I fancy!”

“Rather,” said King, admiringly. “I began to make mine after you’d got kicked out, but couldn’t get out much of it.”

“Well, all I can say is it was a jolly lark. I feel quite hungry after it,” said Telson. “Any of that jam left, old man?”

And so these heroes appropriately celebrated their glorious field-day with a no less glorious banquet, which amply compensated for all the little inconveniences they had had to endure in the course of the afternoon’s entertainment.

Meanwhile, rather more serious work was going on in the Great Hall.

The Skyrockets being ejected, the house proceeded in a somewhat humdrum fashion to discuss the relative merits of classics and mathematics. Several of the seniors and a few Limpets had prepared speeches, which they duly delivered. Contrary to the expectation of most present, Riddell took no part in the discussion. As head classic, a speech from him had been quite counted on; but not even the calls of the one side or the taunts of the other could get him on to his feet.

The fact was, he only half heard what was going on. His thoughts were far away, busied with a far more serious inward debate than that on the notice-paper.

At length he could remain idle no longer. He must go and find out Wyndham, or see the doctor, or pay another visit to Tom the boat-boy—anything rather than this suspense and misery and inaction.

He took advantage of a more than ordinarily dreary speech from Tedbury to rise and make his retreat quietly from the room.

But before he had reached the door Tedbury’s voice abruptly ceased and Wibberly’s was heard saying, “Mr Chairman, I see Mr Riddell is leaving the meeting. Will you allow me to ask him a question before he goes?”

There was something strange about this interruption, and also in the manner in which the question was asked, which drew the sudden attention of the House, and all eyes were turned on the captain.

He stopped and turned in his usual nervous, half-inquiring way, apparently not quite sure what had been said or who had spoken.

“Mr Wibberly,” said Bloomfield, “wishes to ask a question of Mr Riddell.”

“It is merely this,” said Wibberly, rapidly, and giving no time for any objection to be raised on the point of order. “I wish to ask Mr Riddell whether he has found out yet who cut the rudder-line of Parrett’s boat at the boat-race, or whether he suspects anybody, and, if so, whom?”

At this unlooked-for question a hubbub immediately arose. Several schoolhouse fellows protested against the proceedings being interrupted in this way, and even Bloomfield exclaimed across the table, “For goodness’ sake, Wibberly, don’t bring up that wretched subject again.”

But those who had watched Riddell had seen him turn suddenly pale at the question, and for a moment make as though he would rush from the room. But he stopped himself, and turned like a hunted deer on the questioner.

A dead silence fell on the assembly, as Wibberly coolly said, “I will repeat the questions. Has Mr Riddell found out who cut the rudder-lines? or does he suspect any one? and, if so, who is it?”

Every eye turned on Riddell. The brief pause had given him time to collect himself and fight out the inward battle; and now he answered steadily, “I do suspect some one. But until I am perfectly sure I shall not say who it is.”

So saying, he quietly left the room.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Everything gone wrong.

Riddell was fairly committed to his task now. Like the good old general who burned his ships when he landed on the enemy’s shores, he had cut off from himself the slightest possibility of a retreat, and must now either go right through with the matter or confess himself a miserable failure.

The consciousness of this nerved him with unlooked-for courage, and he walked from the Parliament that afternoon a very different being from the boy who had entered it. He had entered it cowed, irresolute, wretched; he left it indeed still wretched, but with his spirit roused and his mind made up. His duty lay clear before him, and whatever it cost he must do it.

Whether Wibberly was himself the writer of the mysterious letter, or whether some one had prompted him to ask the question, or whether his asking it just at this time was a mere coincidence, he did not trouble to decide.

He felt rather grateful to him than otherwise for having asked it, just as one is occasionally grateful to the thunder-clap for clearing the air.

The first thing without doubt was to find Wyndham, and come to a clear understanding as to whether or not he was the culprit; and the captain lost no time in attempting to put this resolve into practice.

It would not do, he knew, immediately after the scene in the Parliament, when everybody would be on the tip-toe of curiosity, to be seen holding a secret interview with any particular boy. He therefore decided wisely to wait till the usual time when Wyndham was in the habit of coming to his study to do his lessons. Meanwhile, to make sure of his coming, he sent him a message by Cusack to tell him to be sure and turn up.

Cusack, little suspecting the importance of this simple message, delivered it glibly, and being of course brimful of the excitement of the hour, he remained a little to regale Wyndham with a history of the afternoon’s events.

“Oh, I say,” said he, “you weren’t at Parliament this afternoon. There was no end of a shine on.”

“Was there?” asked Wyndham.

“Rather. What do you think, those young Parrett’s cads came down in a body and kicked up the biggest row you ever saw—said they were a club, and made no end of beasts of themselves, and got kicked out at last, and serve them right too.”

“They’re always fooling about at something,” said Wyndham.

“That they are. They want a good taking down, and we mean to do it next week in the junior house match.”

“Ah,” said Wyndham, who amid all his recent troubles could never forget that he was a second-eleven man. “Ah, I heard the juniors’ match was to come off. What day is it to be?”

“Thursday.”

“Oh, I must come and have a look at you. Is Welch’s going to win?”

“Going to try, and I fancy we’re pretty fair. They’ve been lazy, you know, in Parrett’s, and so we get a pull there. Oh, but I was saving that row with the kids wasn’t all this afternoon. Just at the end that cad Wibberly got up and asked Riddell some more about the boat-race—they’re always hammering away at that, and what do you think Riddell said—guess!”

“I can’t,” said Wyndham.

“Why he said he knew who the chap was who had cut the strings, or fancied he did!”

“Who is it?” exclaimed Wyndham, excitedly.

“That’s what he won’t say. And of course there’s an awful row on. They say they’ll make him tell, or kick him out of the school or something. They’re in no end of a rage.”

“Why doesn’t he tell who it is?” asked Wyndham.

“Oh, he says he’s not sure, or something like that. But I dare say he’ll tell you all about it this evening. You’re to be sure and turn up, he says, at preparation time.”

And off went this vivacious messenger, leaving Wyndham in a considerable state of astonishment and perturbation.

What did Riddell want him for? He had not seen him since that evening, a week ago, when he had so nearly confessed to him about Beamish’s. He hardly liked not to go now, although he knew it would be hard to avoid letting out the wretched secret which he had promised Gilks and Silk to keep.

Besides, uneasy as he was about this, he could not help feeling excited about what Cusack had just told him of the boat-race affair. And most likely, when he came to consider, Riddell would be so full of that that he might perhaps not say any more about Beamish’s. So Wyndham decided to go, and in due time presented himself with his books at the captain’s study.

He could see at once that Riddell was in one of his serious moods, and his heart sank, for he had no doubt what was coming, and felt that, unless he were to break his promise, matters were sure to be made worse.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” said Riddell; “you went off so suddenly the other evening.”

“Yes,” said Wyndham; “the lock-up bell rang, and I was bound to be in my house before it stopped.”

“You know what I want to see you about now, Wyndham?” said the captain, nervously.

“Yes,” replied the boy, doggedly; “I suppose I do.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, at the end of which Riddell said, “Surely, Wyndham, you are not going to leave it to me to clear up this matter?”

“What do you mean?” asked the boy, burying his face in his hands, and utterly unnerved by the tones of his friend’s voice.

“I mean this,” said Riddell, as firmly as he could, “that there are only two courses open. Either you must confess what you have done, of your own accord, or it will be my duty to do it for you.”

“I don’t see how it’s your duty to tell everybody,” said the boy. “I should get expelled to a dead certainty!”

“It must either be one or the other,” said the captain.

“Oh, Riddell!” exclaimed the boy, springing to his feet, “don’t say that! I know I’ve been a cad, and let myself be led into it; but surely it’s not so bad as all that! You’ve always been a brick to me, I know, and I’ve not been half grateful enough. But do let us off this time! please do! I can’t tell you anything; I would gladly, only I’ve promised. You wouldn’t have me break my promise? If you tell of me I shall be expelled I know I shall! Do help me out this time!”

“Poor fellow!” said Riddell, who was not proof against this sort of appeal from any one, least of all from one he loved.

The boy was quick in the energy of his despair to follow up his advantage.

“I’d make it good any other way—any way you like—but don’t have me expelled, Riddell. Think of them all at home, what a state they would be in! I know I deserve it; but can’t you get me out of it?”

“If you were to go to the doctor and tell him everything—” began Riddell.

“Oh, that’s just what I can’t do!” exclaimed Wyndham. “I’d do it like a shot if it was only myself in it. I don’t know how you found it all out, I’m sure; but I can’t go and tell the doctor, even if it was to get me off being expelled.”

It was no use going on like this. Riddell was getting unmanned every moment, and Wyndham by these wild appeals was only prolonging the agony.

“Wyndham, old fellow,” said the captain, in tones full of sympathy and pity, “if I had dreamt all this was to happen I would never have come to Willoughby at all. I know what troubles you have had this term, and how bravely you have been trying to turn over a new leaf. I’d give anything to be able to help you out of this, but I tell you plainly I don’t see how to do it. If you like, I’ll go with you to the doctor, and—”

“No, no!” exclaimed Wyndham, wildly, “I can’t do that! I can’t do that!”

“Then,” said Riddell, gravely, “I must go to him by myself.”

Wyndham looked up and tried to speak, and then fairly broke down.

“If the honour of the whole school were not involved—”

Wyndham looked up in a startled way. “The honour of the school? What has it got to do with my going to—”

What strange fatality was there about Riddell’s study-door that it always opened at the most inopportune times?

Just as Wyndham began to speak it opened again, and Bloomfield, of all persons, appeared.

“I want to speak to you, Riddell,” he said.

The words were uttered before he had noticed that the captain was not alone, or that his visitor was young Wyndham, in a state of great distress—hardly greater than that of Riddell himself.

As soon as he did perceive it he drew back, and said, “I beg your pardon; I didn’t know any one was here.”

“I’ll go,” said Wyndham, hurriedly, going to the door, and hardly lifting his eyes from the ground as he passed.

Bloomfield could hardly help noticing his strange appearance, or wondering at it.

“Anything wrong with young Wyndham?” said he, not sorry to have some way of breaking the ice.

“He’s in trouble,” said the captain. “Won’t you sit down?”

It was a very long time since the head of Parrett’s and the captain of the school had met in this polite way. But Bloomfield for some time past had shown signs of coming round to see that the position which had been forced upon him, and which he had been very ready at first to accept, was not a satisfactory one. And, greatly to the disgust of some of his fellow-monitors, he had shown this more than once by friendly advances towards his rival. But, so far, he had never got to the length of calling upon him in his study.

Riddell was scarcely surprised to see him, although he was quite unprepared for the very amicable way in which he began.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” said Bloomfield, “but I’ve been intending to come over the last day or two.”

“It’s very good of you,” said Riddell.

“The fact is,” said Bloomfield, a little nervously, “ever since that debate in Parliament some weeks ago, when you spoke about all pulling together, I’ve felt that our fellows haven’t done as much as they ought in that way—I know I haven’t.”

Riddell did not exactly know what to say. He could not say that the Parrett’s fellows had “pulled together” for the good of the school, so he said nothing.

“I’m getting rather sick of it,” continued Bloomfield, digging his hands in his pockets.

“So am I,” said the captain.

“You know,” said Bloomfield, “it was that wretched boat-race affair which made things as bad as they were. Our fellows wouldn’t have kept it up so long if that hadn’t happened.”

Riddell began to get more and more uneasy. He had expected this was coming, and there was no escaping it.

“It was an awfully ugly business, of course,” continued Bloomfield; “and though no one suspected fellows like you and Fairbairn of such a thing, our fellows, you know, were pretty sure some one was at the bottom of it.”

Riddell could not help thinking, in the midst of his uneasiness, how very sagacious the Parrett’s fellows had been to make the discovery!

“And now,” said Bloomfield, looking up, and feeling relieved to have his speech nearly done—“now that you’ve found out who it is, and it’s all going to be cleared up, I think things ought to come all right.”

It was a painful situation for the captain of Willoughby. The bribe which Bloomfield offered for his secret was what had been the wish of his heart the whole term. If he accepted it now there would be an end to all the wretched squabbles which had worked such mischief in the school the last few months, and the one object of his ambition as head of the school would be realised.

Surely, now, he could hold back no longer. His duty, his interest, the honour of the school, all demanded his secret of him; whereas if he held it back things would be worse than ever before. And yet he hesitated.

That last wild half-finished exclamation of Wyndham’s lingered in his mind and perplexed him. Suppose there should be some mistake? With that knife in his pocket, and the poor boy’s whole conduct and demeanour to corroborate its story, he could scarcely hope it. But suppose there was a doubt, or even the shadow of a doubt, what right had he to accuse him, or even to breathe his name?

“I hope it will be cleared up before long,” said he.

“Why, you said you knew who it was!” said Bloomfield.

“I said I suspected somebody.”

“Who is it?” asked Bloomfield.

“I can’t tell you,” replied Riddell. “I’m not sure; I may be wrong.”

“But surely you’re not going to keep a thing like this to yourself!” exclaimed Bloomfield, warmly; “it concerns everybody in the school. I’ve a right, at any rate, as stroke of the Parrett’s boat, to know who it is.”

“Of course, you have; and if I was quite sure I was right I would tell you.”

“But you can tell me whom you suspect,” said Bloomfield, who had not anticipated this difficulty. “No, I cannot,” replied the captain. “In confidence, at any rate,” said Bloomfield. “No, not till I am sure. I really cannot.”

Bloomfield’s manner changed. This rebuff was not what he had expected. He had come here partly out of curiosity partly from a desire to be friendly, and partly owing to the eagerness of his companions to have an explanation. He had never doubted but that he would succeed; nay, even that Riddell would be glad to meet him more than half-way. But now it seemed this was not to be, and Bloomfield lost his temper.

“You mean to say,” said he, angrily, “you’re going to keep it to yourself?”

“Yes, till I am sure.”

“Till you are sure! What are you going to do to make it sure, I’d like to know?”

“Everything I can.”

“You know, I suppose, what everybody says about you and the whole concern?” said Bloomfield.

“I can’t help what they say,” said the captain.

“They say that if you chose you could tell straight out like an honest man who it is.”

Riddell looked quickly up at the speaker, and Bloomfield felt half ashamed of the taunt directly it escaped his lips.

“I say that’s what the fellows think,” said he, “and it’s in your own interest to clear yourself. They think you are shielding some one.”

The captain’s face changed colour rapidly, and Bloomfield was quick enough to see it.

“It’s hardly what fellows had been led to expect of you,” said he, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. “Anyhow it knocks on the head any idea of our pulling together as I had hoped. I certainly shall do nothing towards it as long as this ugly business is going on.”

“Bloomfield, I’ve told you—” began Riddell.

“You’ve told me a great deal,” said Bloomfield, “but you can’t deny that you are sheltering the cad, whoever he is, under the pretext of not being quite sure.”

Riddell said nothing, and Bloomfield, seeing nothing could come of this altercation, left the room.

At the door, however, a thought struck him. Could that agitated scene between Riddell and young Wyndham, which he had interrupted by his arrival, have had anything to do with this mystery?

He recollected now what a state of distress both had been in; and, now he thought of it, surely he had heard Wyndham’s voice saying something in tones of very eager appeal at the moment the door was open. Besides Wyndham had been very “down” for a week past. Bloomfield had noticed it at the cricket practices; and more than one fellow had spoken of it in his hearing. He knew too how thick the boy was with the captain, and with what almost brotherly concern Riddell watched over all his interests; every one in Willoughby knew it.

Bloomfield was only a moderately clever youth, but he knew enough to put two and two together; and, as he stood there at the door, the state of the case flashed across his mind. He might get at the secret after all!

“You forget that other people can suspect besides you, Riddell,” he said, turning back. “Suppose I was to suspect that precious young friend of yours who stood blubbering here just now?”

It was well for the captain that his back was turned as Bloomfield said this, otherwise the least doubt as to the correctness of his guess would have been instantly dispelled.

The last strait in which Riddell found himself was worse than any that had gone before. For he could not deny, and to say nothing would be the same as assenting. The secret was out, and what could he do? The only thing seemed to be to appeal to Bloomfield’s generosity, to explain all to him, and to implore him, for a day or two at least, to keep sacred the confidence.

And yet—it was the old question—suppose he were wrong, and suppose after all Wyndham were not the culprit, what grievous wrong would he be doing him by admitting even his suspicion! He composed himself with an effort, and turning, replied, “Excuse me, Bloomfield, I’ve told you I can say nothing at present, and it is really useless to say any more about it.”

Bloomfield departed, perplexed and angry. His anger was partly because he could not help feeling that Riddell was in the right; and his perplexity was to know what to think of it all, and whether his guess about young Wyndham was near the mark or not.

“Well,” inquired Game, who with one or two of the most ardent Parretts was eagerly waiting his return. “Have you got it out of him?”

“No,” said Bloomfield, “he won’t tell me.”

“The cad!” exclaimed Game. “Why ever not?”

“He says he’s not sure, that’s why,” said Bloomfield; “but it’s my private opinion he’s shielding some one or other.”

“Of course he is,” said Ashley. “I shouldn’t wonder if he’s known who it is all along.”

“Anyhow,” said Tipper, “he ought to be made to clear it up, or else pay up for it. I know I’ll cut him dead next time I see him.”

“So shall we,” replied one or two others.

“He won’t afflict himself much about that,” said Bloomfield; “if I were sure he didn’t want to shirk it I’d be inclined to give him a day or two before doing anything.”

“What’s the use? Of course he wants to shirk it,” said Game, “and thinks it will blow over if it goes long enough. I’ll take precious good care it doesn’t, though.”

“Upon my honour,” said Ashley, “I never expected Willoughby would come to this pass. It was bad enough to have a coward and a fool as captain, but it’s rather too much when he turns out to be a cheat too!”

“And to think that he ever got stuck in the first eleven,” said Tipper. “I told you, Bloomfield, he’d be no credit to you.”

“He caught out that best man of theirs,” said Bloomfield.

“Bah! I’d sooner have lost the match twice over,” exclaimed Game, “than win it with his help!”

And so these estimable young gentlemen, satisfied that they alone were the glory and support of Willoughby, disposed in their own minds of their wicked captain, and thanked their lucky stars they were made of nobler stuff and loftier principle.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Wyndham makes a final Venture.

If any proof had been needed that young Wyndham was “down,” as the Parrett’s fellows termed it, the fact that he did not put in appearance at the second-eleven practice next day supplied it.

Bloomfield, who in ordinary course had strolled round to watch the play, noticed his absence, and drew his own conclusions from it.

To Bloomfield’s credit be it said that, whatever his own suspicions may have been, he had been as reluctant as Riddell himself, as long as any doubt existed, to name Wyndham publicly as the culprit for whom all Willoughby was on the lookout. He had been very angry with Riddell for his reserve, but when it came to the point of publishing his own suspicions or not, his better feeling prevented him, and led him to copy the captain’s example.

For Riddell’s reply to the suggestion of Wyndham’s name had neither confirmed or denied its correctness. He had merely declined to say anything about the matter, so that as far as Bloomfield was concerned it was no more than a guess, and that being so, he too was wise enough to keep it to himself.

However, now that he noticed Wyndham’s unwonted absence from the cricket practice, he felt more than ever convinced something was wrong in that quarter.

And so there was.

Wyndham, with a drawn sword, so to speak, over his head, was fit for nothing.

He dared not go back to Riddell. As long as his tongue was tied any explanation was impossible, and unless he could explain, it was worse than useless to talk to the captain.

Equally out of the question was a confession to the doctor, or a letter explaining all to his brother. The only thing was either to make up his mind to his fate, or else, by getting Silk and Gilks to release him from his promise, to get his tongue free to make a full confession of his own delinquencies, and throw himself entirely on the doctor’s mercy.

This last chance seemed feeble enough. But a drowning man will clutch at a straw, and so Wyndham, as his last hope, faced the unpromising task of working on the generosity of his two old patrons.

He began with Gilks. Gilks was in his own house, and had always seemed to be the least vicious, as he was also the least clever of the two. Besides, of late it was notorious Gilks and Silk were no longer the friends they had been. There was a mystery about their recent quarrel; but as Gilks had been down in the mouth ever since, while Silk showed no signs of dejection, it was safe to assume the former had come off second best.

Wyndham therefore selected Gilks for his first attempt as being on the whole the less formidable of the two.

He found him in his study listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, which evidently must either have been a very stupid one or else not nearly as engrossing as the reader’s own reflections.

He looked up with some surprise to see Wyndham, who since he had somewhat ostentatiously cut his and Silk’s acquaintance some weeks ago, had never been near him.

“What do you want here?” he demanded, not very encouragingly.

“I know you’ve not much reason to be friendly with me,” began the boy, “but I want to speak to you, if I may.”

“What about?” said Gilks, roughly.

The poor boy seemed suddenly to realise the hopeless nature of the task he had undertaken, and he nearly broke down completely as he answered, “I’m in awful trouble, Gilks.”

“What’s that to do with me?” asked Gilks.

Wyndham struggled hard to shake off the weakness that had come over him, and replied, “It’s about those visits to—to Beamish’s. They—that is, Riddell—I don’t know how or who told him—but he seems to have found out about it.”

“Riddell!” cried Gilks, scornfully; “who cares for him?”

“Oh, but,” continued Wyndham, tremulously, “he means to report me for it.”

“What? report you? I thought you and he were such dear pious friends,” sneered Gilks.

“We are friends; but he says it is his duty to do it.”

Gilks laughed scornfully.

“Of course, it is! It only needs for a thing to be mean and low, and it will always be his duty to do it. Bah! the hypocrite!”

Wyndham was proof against this invective. Nay, bitterly as the captain’s sense of duty affected him, he could not help a passing feeling of indignation on his friend’s behalf at Gilk’s words.

But he was prudent enough to keep his feelings to himself.

“Of course,” said he, “if he does report me for it, I shall be expelled.”

“You may be sure of that,” replied Gilks, “but what’s all this got to do with me?”

Wyndham looked up in surprise.

“Why,” said he rather nervously. “Of course you know, we, that is you and I and Silk, are all sort of in the same boat over this affair. That is, if it all came out. But I fancy Riddell only suspects me.”

“Well, if he does,” said Gilks, “it’s all the less any concern of mine.”

“I promised, you know,” said Wyndham, “to you and Silk to say nothing about it.”

“Of course you did,” said Gilks, “and you’d better stick to it, or it’ll be the worse for you!”

“I think,” continued the boy, “and Riddell says so—if I were to go and tell the Doctor about it, only about myself, you know, he might perhaps not expel me.”

“Well?” said Gilks.

“Well,” said Wyndham, “of course I couldn’t do it after promising you and Silk. But I thought if I promised not to say anything about you and make out that it was all my fault, you wouldn’t mind my telling Paddy.”