Talbot Baines Reed (continued 7)

Gilks looked at the boy in perplexity. This was a code of morality decidedly beyond him, and for a moment he looked as if he half doubted whether it was not a jest.

“What on earth do you mean, you young muff?” he exclaimed. “I mean, may I go and tell him that I went those two times to Beamish’s? I promise to say nothing about you.” Gilks laughed once more.

“What do I care what you go and tell him?” he said. “If you want to get expelled as badly as all that I don’t want to prevent you, I’m sure.”

“Then I really may?” exclaimed poor Wyndham, scarcely believing his own ears.

“Of course, if you keep me out of it, what on earth do I care what you tell him? You may tell him you murdered somebody there for all I care.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks,” cried Wyndham with a positively beaming face. “I give you my word I won’t even mention you or Silk.”

“As long as you don’t mention me, that’s all I care for,” said Gilks; “and upon my word,” added he, with a sigh half to himself, “I don’t much care whether you do or not!”

Wyndham was too delighted and relieved to pay any heed to this last dreary remark, and gratefully took his leave, feeling that though the battle was anything but won yet he was at least a good deal nearer hope than he had been an hour ago.

But he very soon checked the reviving flow of his spirits as the prospect of an interview with Silk began to loom out ahead.

He had not seen Silk since the evening of the Rockshire match, when, as the reader will remember the meeting was anything but a pleasant one, and, but for the timely arrival of a third party, might have ended severely for the younger boy.

The recollection of this did not certainly add to the hopefulness of his present undertaking; but young Wyndham was a boy of such a sanguine temper, and such elastic spirits, that he could not help hoping something would turn up in his favour even now. He had got on far better than he had dared to hope with Gilks, why not also with Silk?

Besides, when all was said, it was his only chance, and therefore, whether he hoped anything or nothing, he must try it.

He wandered about during the hour between first and second school with the idea of coming across his man in the quadrangle or the playground. He could not make up his mind to beard the lion in his den; indeed at present he had every reason to fight shy of Welch’s.

Second and third school passed before he was able to renew his search, and this time he was successful.

Just as he was beginning to give up hope, and was meditating a show-up for appearance’s sake at the cricket practice, he caught sight of Silk lolling on a bench in a distant corner of the Big.

His heart sunk as he made the discovery, but it was no time for consulting his inclinations.

He moved timidly over in the direction of the bench, taking care to approach it from behind, so as to be spared the discomfort of a long inspection on the way.

Silk blissfully unconscious of the visit in store, was peacefully performing a few simple addition sums on the back of an envelope, and calculating how with six shillings he should be able to pay debts amounting to twenty-six, when Wyndham’s shadow suddenly presented itself between him and his figures and gave him quite a start.

“Ah!” said he, in his usual friendly style, and to all appearances quite forgetful of the incidents of his last interview with this visitor. “Ah, Wyndham, so you’ve come back?”

“I wanted to see you very particularly,” said the boy.

“Plenty of room on the seat,” said Silk.

Wyndham, feeling far more uncomfortable at this civility than he had done at Gilk’s roughness, sat down.

“Nice weather,” said Silk, mockingly, after the pause had lasted some little time.

“I want to ask you a favour—a great favour,” said Wyndham, feeling that a beginning must be made.

“Very kind of you,” replied Silk, going on with his sums, and whistling softly to himself.

Wyndham did not feel encouraged. He had half a mind to back out of the venture even now, but desperation urged him on.

“You know I promised you never to say a word about Beamish’s,” he faltered, at length.

“So you did,” replied Silk, drily.

“Would you mind letting me off that promise?”

“What?” exclaimed Silk, putting down his paper and pencil and staring at the boy.

“I mean only as far as I’m concerned,” said Wyndham, hurriedly, trying to avert a storm.

“As far as you are concerned! What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed the other.

“I want to confess to the doctor that I went those two times,” said the boy. “I wouldn’t mention your name or Gilk’s. I only want to tell him about myself.”

“Have you gone mad, or what?” cried Silk, utterly perplexed, as Gilks had been, to understand the boy’s meaning.

Wyndham explained to him as best he could how the matter stood. How Riddell appeared to have discovered his delinquencies, and was resolved to report him. Of the certain result of such an exposure, and of the one hope he had, by voluntarily confessing all to the doctor, of averting his expulsion.

Silk listened to it all with a sneer, and when it was done, replied, “And you mean to say you’ve got the impudence to come to me to help to get you out of a scrape?”

“Please, Silk,” said the boy, “I would be so grateful.”

“Bah!” snarled Silk, “have you forgotten, then, the nice row you kicked up in my study a week ago? and the way you’ve treated me all this term? because if you have, I haven’t.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” pleaded the boy.

“It’s a precious lot too much,” said Silk; “and no one who hadn’t got your cheek would do it!”

And he took up his paper and pencil again, and turned his back on the boy.

“Won’t you do it, then?” once more urged Wyndham.

“Not likely!” rejoined Silk. “If you want favours you’d better go to your precious friend Riddell; and you can go as soon as you like. I don’t want you here!”

“If you’d only do it,” said Wyndham, “I’d—”

“Do you hear what I say?”

“I’d never ask you for the money you borrowed,” said the boy quickly.

Silk laughed as he turned once more on his victim, and said, “Wouldn’t you really? How awfully considerate! Upon my word, the generosity of some people is quite touching. Let’s see, how much was it?”

“Thirty shillings,” said Wyndham, “and the change out of the post-office order, two pounds.”

“Which makes,” said Silk, putting the figures down on his paper, “three pounds ten, doesn’t it? and you think what you ask is worth three pounds ten, do you?”

“It’s worth far more to me,” said the boy, “because it’s the only thing can save me from being expelled.”

Silk mused a bit over his figures, and then replied, “And what would happen if I didn’t pay you back?”

“I wouldn’t say a word about it,” cried the boy, eagerly, “if only you’d let me off the promise!”

“And suppose I told you I consider the promise worth just double what you do?”

Wyndham’s face fell for a moment; he had not dared to write home about the loss of his last pocket-money, and saw very little chance of raising the wind for so large an amount again. Yet it seemed his only hope.

“Would that make it all right?” he asked.

“I might think about it,” said Silk, with a sweet smile—“under conditions.”

“I don’t know how I can manage it,” said Wyndham; “but I’ll try. And you won’t mind, then, my going to the doctor?”

“What! do you suppose I’m fool enough to let you do it before I have the money?” exclaimed Silk. “You must have a nice opinion of me!”

It was no use urging further; Wyndham saw he had got all he could hope for. It was little better than nothing, for before he could get the money—if he got it at all—the explosion might have come, and he would be expelled. If only Riddell, now, would wait a little longer!

As the thought crossed his mind he became aware that the captain was slowly approaching the bench on which he and Silk were sitting. It was anything but pleasant for the boy, after all that had happened, to be discovered thus, in close companionship with the very fellow he had promised to avoid, and whom he had all along acknowledged to be the cause of his troubles.

His instinct was to spring from his place and either escape or meet Riddell. But Silk saw the intention in time and forbade it.

“No,” said he, with a laugh; “don’t run away as if you were ashamed of it. Stay where you are; let him see you keep good company now and then.”

“Oh, I must go!” exclaimed the boy; “he’ll think all sorts of things. He’ll think I’m such a hypocrite after what I promised him. Oh, do let me go!”

His agitation only increased the amusement of his tormentor, who, with a view to give the captain as vivid an impression as possible, laid his hand affectionately on the boy’s arm and beamed most benignantly upon him. It was no use for Wyndham to resist. After all, suspicious as it might appear, he was doing nothing wrong.

And yet, what would Riddell think?

The captain was pacing the Big in a moody, abstracted manner, and at first appeared not to notice either the bench or its occupants. Wyndham, as he sat and trembled in Silk’s clutches, wildly hoped something might cause him to turn aside or back. But no, he came straight on, and in doing so suddenly caught sight of the two boys.

He started and flushed quickly, and for a moment it looked as if he were inclined to make a wild dash to rescue the younger boy from the companionship in which he found him. But another glance changed that intention, if intention it had been.

His face fell, and he walked past with averted eyes, apparently recognising neither boy, and paying no heed to Wyndham’s feebly attempted salute.

Before he was out of hearing Silk broke into a loud laugh. “Upon my word, it’s as good as a play!” cried he. “You did it splendidly, young ’un! Looked as guilty as a dog, every bit! He’ll give you up for lost now, with a vengeance!”

Wyndham’s misery would have moved the pity of any one but Silk. The new hopes which had risen within him had been cruelly dashed by this unhappy accident, and he felt no further care as to what happened to him. Riddell would have lost all faith in him now; he would appear little better than an ungrateful hypocrite and impostor. The last motive for sparing him would be swept away, and—so the boy thought—the duty of reporting him would now become a satisfaction.

He tore himself from the seat, and exclaimed, “Let me go, you brute!”

Silk looked at him in astonishment; then, relapsing into a smile, said, “Oh, indeed! a brute, am I?”

“Yes, you are!”

“And, let’s see; I forget what the little favour was you wanted the brute to do for you?”

“I want you to do no favour!” cried Wyndham, passionately.

“No? Not even to allow you to go to the doctor and tell him about Beamish’s?”

“No; not even that! I wouldn’t do it now. He may now find out what he likes.”

“It might interest him if I went and told him a few things about you?” said Silk.

“Go! as soon as you like—and tell him anything you like,” cried Wyndham. “I don’t care.”

“You wouldn’t even care to have back your three pound ten?”

“No,” said the boy, “not even if you ever thought of paying it back.”

Silk all this time had been growing furious. The last thing he had expected was that this boy, whom he supposed to be utterly in his power, should thus rise in revolt and shake off every shred of his old allegiance. But he found he had gone too far for once, and this last defiant taunt of his late victim cut him to the quick.

He sprang from the seat and made a wild dash at the boy, but Wyndham was too quick for him, and escaped, leaving his adversary baffled as he had never been before, and almost doubting whether he had not been and still was dreaming.

Wyndham ran as fast as he could in the direction of the school, and would have probably gone on running till he reached his own study, had not the sight of Riddell slowly going the same way ahead of him suddenly checked his progress.

As it was, he almost ran over him before he perceived who it was. For Riddell just at that moment had halted in his walk, and stooped to pick up a book that lay on the path.

However, when Wyndham saw who it was, he swerved hurriedly in another direction, and got to his destination by a roundabout way, feeling as he reached it about as miserable and hopeless as it was possible for a boy to be.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

A Select Party at the Doctor’s.

Young Wyndham, had he only known what was in the captain’s mind as he walked that afternoon across the Big, would probably have thought twice before he went such a long way round to avoid him.

Silk’s little piece of pantomime had not had the effect the author intended. In the quick glance which Riddell had given towards the bench and its occupants he had taken in pretty accurately the real state of the case.

“Poor fellow!” said he to himself; “he’s surely in trouble enough without being laid hold of by that cad. Silk thinks I shall fancy he has captured my old favourite. Let him! But if he has captured him he doesn’t seem very sure of him, or he wouldn’t hold him down on the seat like that. I wonder what brings them together here? and I wonder if I had better go and interfere? No, I think I won’t just now.”

And so he walked on, troubled enough to be sure, but not concluding quite as much from what he saw as Wyndham feared or Silk hoped.

As he walked on fellows glared at him from a distance, and others passing closer cut him dead. A few of the most ardent Parrett’s juniors took the liberty of hissing him and one ventured to call out, pointedly, “Who cut the rudder-lines?”

Riddell, however, though he winced under these insults, took little notice of them. He was as determined as ever to wait the confirmation of his suspicions before he unmasked the culprit, and equally convinced that duty and honour both demanded that he should lose not a moment in coming to a conclusion.

It was in the midst of these reflections that the small book which Wyndham had seen him pick up caught his eye. He picked it up mechanically, and after noticing that it appeared to be a notebook, and had no owner’s name in the beginning, carried it with him, and forgot all about it till he reached his study.

Even here it was some time before it again attracted his attention, as its importance was wholly eclipsed by the contents of a note which he found lying on his table, and which ran as follows:

“Dear Riddell,—Will you join us at tea this evening at seven? I expect Fairbairn and Bloomfield.

“Yours faithfully,—

“R. Patrick.”

Riddell groaned. Had he not had trouble, and humiliation, and misery enough? What had he done to deserve this crowning torture? Tea with the Griffins!

He sat down and wrote, as in politeness bound, that he would have much pleasure in accepting the doctor’s kind invitation, and, sending the note off by Cusack, resigned himself to the awful prospect, which for a time shut out everything else.

However, he had no right, he felt, to be idle. He must finish his work now, so as to be free for the evening’s “entertainment,” and for the other equally grave duties which lay before him.

But somehow he could not work; his mind was too full to be able to settle steadily on any one thing, and finally he pushed away the books and gave up the attempt.

It was at that moment that the small black book he had found caught his eye.

He took it up, intending, if possible, to ascertain whose property it was, and, failing that, to send Cusack to “cry” it round the school.

But the first thing that met his eye on the front page roused his curiosity. It was evidently a quotation:

“Pass me not, oh! reader, by, Read my pages tenderly (‘tenderly’ altered to ‘on the sly’); All that’s writ is writ for thee, Open now and you shall see.”

After such a cordial invitation, even Riddell could hardly feel much qualm about dipping farther into this mysterious manuscript.

It appeared to be a diary, which, but for the announcement at the beginning, one would have been inclined to regard as a private document. And the first entry Riddell encountered was certainly of that character:

“Friday, the fifth day of the week.—My birthday. Rose at 6:59½. I am old. I am 24 (and ten off) some one had taken my soap. Meditations As I dressed me. The world is very large I am small in the world I will aspire as I go to chapel I view Riddell who toucheth his hat. Gross conduct of my father sending me only half a crown breakfast at 7:33. Disturbance with the evil Telson whereby I obtained lines.”

This was quite enough for one day, and Riddell, greatly mystified, turned a few pages farther on to see if the narrative became more lucid as it progressed.

“I am now a skyrocket. Meditations on being a skyrocket. The world is very large, etcetera. Gross meeting of Parliament Riddell the little captain sitteth on his seat. I made a noble speech gross conduct of Parson, who is kicked out. Eloquence of Bloomfield who crieth Order under the form I see Telson hanging on. I hang too and am removed speaking nobly. Large tea at Parson’s the cake being beastly. Riddell it seems hath cut the rudder-lines. I indignate and cut him with a razor I remove two corns from my nether foot.”

More in this strain followed, and lower down the diary proceeded:

“Wyndham the junior thinketh much of himself he is ugly in the face and in the second-eleven. I have writ a poem on Wyndham.

“‘I do not like thee, Dr Fell (altered to “Wyndham junior”) The reason why I cannot tell (altered to “say”); But this I know, and know full well (altered to “ill”) I do not like thee, Dr Fell (altered to “Wyndham junior”).’

“I over hear much of Wyndham the gross Telson and the evil Parson not knowing I am by the little boys say they have seen the ugly Wyndham come from Beamish’s. Oh evil Wyndham being taken by Silk and Gilks. No one knows and Wyndham is to be expelled. I joy much Riddell knoweth it. Telson telleth Parson that Riddell is gross expelling for Beamish’s and Wyndham weepeth in private. I smile at the practice Mr Parrett bowleth me balls. I taketh them and am out.”

If Bosher could have seen the effect of this elegant extract upon the captain he would probably have “joyed” with infinite self-satisfaction. Riddell’s colour changed as he read and re-read and re-read again these few lines of idiotic jargon.

He lay down the book half a dozen times, and as often took it up again, and scrutinised the entry, and as he did so quick looks of perplexity, or joy, or shame, even of humour, chased one another across his face.

The truth with all its new meaning slowly dawned upon him. It had been reserved to Bosher’s diary, of all agencies in the world, to explain everything, and cast a flood of light upon what had hitherto been incomprehensible!

Of course he could see it all now. If this diary was to be believed—but was it? Might it not be a hoax purposely put in his way to delude him?

Yet he could not believe that this laboriously written record could have been compiled for his sole benefit; and this one entry which he had lit upon by mere chance was only one of hundreds of stupid, absurd entries, most of which meant nothing at all, and which seemed more like the symptoms of a disease than the healthy productions of a sane boy.

In this one case, however, there seemed to be some method in the author’s madness, and he had given a clue so important that Riddell, in pondering over it that evening and calculating its true value, was very nearly being late for the doctor’s tea at seven o’clock.

However, he came to himself just in time to decorate his person, and hurry across the quadrangle before the clock struck.

On his way over he met Parson and Telson, walking arm-in-arm. Although the same spectacle had met his eyes on an average twice every day that term, and was about the commonest “show” in Willoughby, the sight of the faithful pair at this particular time when the revelations of Bosher’s diary were tingling in his ears impressed the captain. Indeed, it impressed him so much that, at the imminent risk of being late for the doctor’s tea, he pulled up to speak to them.

Parson, as became a loyal Parrett, made as though he would pass on, but Telson held him back.

“I say, you two,” said Riddell, “will you come to breakfast with me to-morrow morning after chapel?”

And without so much as waiting for a reply, he bolted off, leaving his two would-be guests a trifle concerned as to his sanity.

The clock was beginning to strike as Riddell knocked at the doctor’s door, and began at length to realise what he was in for.

He did not know whether to be thankful or not that Bloomfield and Fairbairn would be there to share his misery. They would be but two extra witnesses to his sufferings, and their tribulations were hardly likely to relieve his.

However, there was one comfort. He might have a chance before the evening was over of telling Bloomfield that he now had every reason to believe his suspicions about the culprit had been wrong.

How thankful he was he had held out against the temptation to name poor Wyndham two days ago!

“Well, Riddell, how are you?” said the doctor, in his usual genial fashion. “I think you have met these ladies before. Mr Riddell—my dear—Miss Stringer. These gentlemen you have probably seen before also. Ha! ha!”

Riddell saluted the ladies very much as he would have saluted two mad dogs, and nodded the usual Willoughby nod to his two fellow-monitors, who having already got over the introductions had retreated to a safe distance.

A common suffering is the surest bond of sympathy, and Riddell positively beamed on his rival in recognition of his salute.

“I trust your mother,” said Mrs Patrick, “whose indisposition we were regretting on the last occasion when you were here, is now better?”

“Very well indeed, I hope,” replied the captain, hardly knowing what he said. “Thank you.”

“And I trust, Mr Riddell,” chimed in Miss Stringer, “that you were gratified by the result of the election.”

“No, thank you,” replied Riddell, beginning to shake in his shoes.

“Indeed? If I remember right you professed yourself to be a Liberal?”

“Yes—that is—the Radical got in,” faltered Riddell, wondering why in common charity no one came to his rescue.

“And pray, Mr Riddell,” continued Miss Stringer, ruthlessly, “can you tell us the difference between a Liberal and a Radical? I have often longed to know—and you I have no doubt are an authority?”

Riddell at this point seriously meditated a forced retreat, and there is no saying what desperate act he might have committed had not the doctor providentially come to the rescue.

“The election altogether,” said he, laughing, “is rather a sore point in the school. I told you, my dear, about the manner in which Mr Cheeseman’s letter was received?”

“You did,” replied Mrs Patrick, who for some few moments had had her eyes upon Bloomfield, with a view to draw him out.

“Now do you really suppose, Mr Bloomfield, that the boys in your house, for instance, attached any true importance at all to the issue of the contest?”

Bloomfield, who had not been aware till this question was half over that it had been addressed to him, started and said—the most fatal observation he could have made—

“Eh? I beg your pardon, that is.”

“I inquired,” said Mrs Patrick, fixing him with her eye, “whether you really supposed that the boys in your house, for instance, attached any true importance at all to the issue of the contest?”

Bloomfield received this ponderous question meekly, and made a feeble effort to turn it over in his mind, and then dreading to hear it repeated once more, answered, “Oh, decidedly, ma’am.”

“In what respect?” inquired the lady, settling herself down on the settee, and awaiting, with raised eyebrows, her victim’s answer.

Poor Bloomfield was no match for this deliberate style of tactics.

“They were all yellow,” he replied, feebly.

“All what, sir?” demanded Mrs Patrick.

“All Whig, I mean,” he said.

“Exactly. What I mean to know is, do they any of them appreciate the distinction between a Whig (or, as Mr Riddell terms it, a Liberal)—”

Riddell winced.

”—Between a Whig and a Radical?”

“Oh, certainly not,” replied Bloomfield, wildly. “And yet you say that they decidedly attached a true importance to the issue of the contest? That is very extraordinary!”

And Mrs Patrick rose majestically to take her seat at the table, leaving Bloomfield writhing and turned mentally inside out, to recover as best he could from this interesting political discussion!

“The Rockshire match was a great triumph,” said the doctor, cheerily, as the company established itself at the festive board—“and a surprise too, surely—was it not?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fairbairn, who, seeing that Bloomfield was not yet in a condition to discourse, felt it incumbent on him to reply—“we never expected to win by so much.”

“It was quite an event,” said the doctor, “the heads of the three houses all playing together in the same eleven.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Fairbairn, “Bloomfield here was most impartial.”

Bloomfield said something which sounded like “Not at all.”

“I was especially glad to see the Welchers coming out again,” said the doctor, with a friendly nod to Riddell.

“Yes,” said Fairbairn, who appeared to be alarmingly at his ease; “and Welch’s did good service too; that catch of Riddell’s saved us a wicket or two, didn’t it, Bloomfield?”

“Yes,” replied Bloomfield.

“Was Rockshire a specially weak team this year?” asked the doctor.

“I don’t think so, sir,” replied Fairbairn, politely handing the toast to Miss Stringer as he spoke; “but they evidently weren’t so well together as our men.”

“And what, Mr Fairbairn,” asked Miss Stringer at this point, in her most stately tones—“what, pray, is the exact meaning of the expression ‘well together,’ as applied to a company of youths?”

Bloomfield and Riddell groaned inwardly for their comrade. They had seen what was coming, and had marked his rash approach to the mouth of the volcano with growing apprehension. They had been helpless to hold him back, and now his turn was come—he had met his fate.

So, at least, they imagined. What, then, was their amazement when he turned not a hair at the question, but replied, stirring his tea complacently as he did so, “You see, each of the Rockshire men may have been a good cricketer, and yet if they had not been used to playing together, as our fellows have been, we should have a decided pull on them.”

Miss Stringer regarded the speaker critically. She had not been used to have her problems so readily answered, and appeared to discover a suspicion of rudeness in the boy’s speech which called for a set-down.

“I do not understand what you mean by a ‘pull,’ Mr Fairbairn,” said she, sternly.

“Why,” replied Fairbairn, who was really interested in the subject, and quite pleased to be drawn out on so congenial a topic, “it’s almost as important to get to know the play of your own men as to know the play of your opponents. For instance, when we all know Bloomfield’s balls break a bit to the off, we generally know whereabouts in the field to expect them if they are taken; and when Porter goes on with slows every one knows to stand in close and look out for catches.”

“Yes,” said Bloomfield, gaining sudden courage by the example of his comrade, “that’s just where Rockshire were weak. They were always shifting about their field and bowlers. I’m certain they had scarcely played together once.”

“And,” added Riddell, also taking heart of grace, and entering into the humour of the situation—“and they seemed to save up their good bowlers for the end, instead of beginning with them. All our hitting men got the easy bowling, and the others, who were never expected to score in any case, were put out by the good.”

“In this respect, you see,” continued Fairbairn, addressing Miss Stringer, “a school eleven always get the pull of a scratch team.”

Miss Stringer, who during this conversation had been growing manifestly uncomfortable, vouchsafed no reply, but, turning to her sister, said, with marked formality, “My dear, were the Browns at home when you called this afternoon?”

“I regret to say they were out,” replied Mrs Patrick, with a withering glance round the table.

“Of course, it depends, too,” said Bloomfield, replying to Fairbairn’s last question and giving him an imperceptible sly kick under the table, “on whether it’s early or late in the season. If we were to play them in August they would know their own play as well as we know ours.”

“Only,” chimed in Riddell, “these county teams don’t stick to the same elevens as regularly as a school does.”

“My dear, have you done your tea?” inquired Mrs Patrick’s voice across the table.

“Yes. Shall I ring?” said the doctor.

“Allow me,” said Fairbairn, rising hastily, and nearly knocking over Miss Stringer in his eagerness.

The spinster, who had already received in her own opinion sufficient affront for one evening, put the worst construction possible on this accident, and answered with evident ill-temper, “You are very clumsy, sir!”

“I beg your pardon, indeed!” said Fairbairn. “I hope you are not hurt?”

“Be silent, sir!”

Fairbairn, quite taken aback by this unexpected exclamation, did not know what to say, and looked round inquiringly at the doctor, as much as to ask if the lady was often taken this way.

The doctor, however, volunteered no explanation, but looked uncomfortable and coughed.

“If you will excuse me,” said Miss Stringer to her sister, with a forced severity of tone, “I will go to my room.”

“You are not well, I fear,” said Mrs Patrick. “I will go with you”; and next moment the enemy was gone, and the doctor and his boys were together.

Dr Patrick, who, to tell the truth, seemed scarcely less relieved than his visitors, made no attempt to apologise for Miss Stringer’s sudden indisposition, and embarked at once on a friendly talk about school affairs.

This had been his only object in inviting the boys. He had nothing momentous to say, and no important change to propose. Indeed, his object appeared to be more to get them to talk among themselves on matters of common interest to the school, and to let them see that his sympathy was with them in their efforts for the public good.

No reference was made to the state of affairs in Parrett’s, or to the rivalries of the two captains. That the doctor knew all about these matters no one doubted, but he took the wise course of leaving them to right themselves, and at the same time of making it very clear what his opinions were of the effect of disunion and divided interest in a great public school.

Altogether the evening was profitably and pleasantly spent, and when at length the boys took their leave it was with increased respect for the head master and one another.

The ladies, greatly to their relief, did not return to the scene.

“Miss Stringer,” said Fairbairn, as the three walked together across the quadrangle, “doesn’t seem to appreciate cricket.”

The others laughed.

“I say,” said Bloomfield, “you put your foot into it awfully! She thought you were chaffing her all the time.”

“Did she? What a pity!” replied Fairbairn.

“Of course, we were bound to help you out when you were once in,” continued Bloomfield. “But I don’t fancy we three will be asked up there again in a hurry.”

They came to the schoolhouse gate, and Fairbairn said good-night. Riddell and Bloomfield walked on together towards Parrett’s.

“Oh, Bloomfield!” said the captain, nervously, “I just wanted to tell you that I believe I have been all wrong in my guess about the boat-race affair. The boy I suspected, I now fancy, had nothing to do with it.”

“You are still determined to keep it all to yourself, then?” asked Bloomfield, somewhat coldly.

“Of course,” replied the captain.

At this point they reached Parrett’s. Neither boy had any inclination to pursue the unpleasant topic—all the more unpleasant because it was the one bar to a friendship which both desired.

“Good-night,” said Bloomfield, stiffly.

“Good-night,” replied the captain.

Chapter Thirty.

New Lights on old Questions.

Fairbairn was startled next morning while engaged over his toilet by a sudden visit from the captain.

What could be wrong to bring him there at this hour, with a face full of anxiety and a voice full of concern, as he inquired, “Will you do me a favour, old man?”

Fairbairn knew his friend had been in trouble for some time past, and was sore beset on many hands. He had not attempted to intrude into his secrets or to volunteer any aid. For he knew Riddell would ask him if he wanted it. In proof of which here he was.

“Of course, I will,” replied he, “if I can.”

“Do you happen to have a pot of jam you could lend me?”

Fairbairn fairly staggered at this unexpected request. He had imagined he was to be asked at the very least to accompany his friend on some matter of moment to the doctor’s study, or to share some tremendous secret affecting the honour of Willoughby. And to be asked now for the loan of a pot of jam was too great a shock for his gravity, and he burst out laughing.

“A pot of jam!” he exclaimed. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oh, any sort you’ve got,” said the captain, eagerly; “and I suppose you haven’t got a pie of any sort, or some muffins?”

Fairbairn gaped at his visitor with something like apprehension as he came out with this extraordinary request. The captain’s voice was grave, and no suspicion of a jest lurked in his face. Could he possibly have succumbed to the mental strain of the past term, and taken leave of his wits?

“What are you talking about, Riddell?” asked Fairbairn, in tones almost of pity. “Has anything happened to you?”

Riddell looked at the speaker inquisitively for a moment, then broke out into a laugh.

“What an ass I am! I forgot to tell you what I wanted them for. The fact is, I asked two kids to breakfast this morning, and I just remembered I had nothing but tea and toast to offer them; and it’s too early to get anything in. I’d be awfully obliged if you could help me out with it.”

Fairbairn’s merriment broke out afresh as the truth revealed itself, and it was some time before he could attend to business. He then offered Riddell anything he could find in his cupboard, and the captain thereupon gratefully availed himself of the offer to secure a pot of red-currant jam, a small pot of potted meat, two or three apples, and a considerable section of a plum cake. All these he promised to replace without delay, and triumphantly hurried back with them in his pocket and under his jacket, in time to deposit them on his table before the bell began to ring for chapel. He also sent Cusack round to the school larder to order three new laid eggs and some extra butter to be delivered at once.

These grand preparations being duly made, he breathed again, and went hopefully to chapel.

As it happened, he had been very near reckoning without his host, or I should say his guests. For Parson and Telson had been some time before they could make up their minds to accept the hurried invitation of the previous evening.

“It’s a row,” Telson had said, as the captain disappeared.

“Of course it is. I’m not going,” said Parson.

“Wonder what about?”

“Oh, that Skyrocket affair, I suppose.”

“Do you think he’ll give us impots if we don’t go?”

“Don’t know—most likely.”

“Rum, his asking us to breakfast, though,” said Telson.

“All a dodge, I expect,” said Parson. “By the way, what sort of breakfasts does he go in for?”

“Not bad when he likes,” said Telson, with the authority of an old fag.

“Bacon?” asked Parson.

“Sometimes,” said Telson.

“Jam?” inquired Parson.

“Generally,” replied Telson.

There was a pause. Then Parson said, “Fancy we’d better turn up. It’s only civil, when he asked us.”

“All serene,” said Telson; “if it is a row, of course it will come off in any case. And we may as well get our breakfast somewhere.”

With which philosophical resolve the matter had been settled, and the amiable pair parted to meet next morning after chapel.

Riddell spared himself the embarrassment of waiting to escort his guests to the festive board, and hurried off in advance to see that the preparations were duly made in their honour.

He caught Cusack wistfully eyeing the unwonted array of good things on the table, and evidently speculating as to who the favoured guests were to be. It was with some difficulty that the captain got him sent off to his own breakfast in the big hall, half bribed thereto by the promise of a reversion of the coming feast.

Then, feeling quite exhausted by his morning’s excitement, he sat down and awaited his visitors.

They arrived in due time; still, to judge of their leisurely approach and their languid knock, a little suspicious of the whole affair. But the moment the door opened, and their eyes fell on the table, their manner changed to one of the most amiable briskness.

“Good-morning,” said Riddell, who, in the presence of the greater attractions on the table, ran considerable risk of being overlooked altogether.

“Good-morning,” cried the boys, suddenly roused by his voice to a sense of their social duty.

“Awfully brickish of you to ask us round,” said Telson.

“Rather,” chimed in Parson.

“I’m glad you came,” said the captain. “We may as well have breakfast. Telson, have you forgotten how to boil eggs?”

Telson said emphatically he had not, and proceeded forthwith to give practical proof of his cunning, while Parson volunteered his aid in cutting up the bread, and buttering the toast.

In due time the preliminaries were all got through, and the trio sat down to partake of the reward of their toil.

Riddell could not thank his stars sufficiently that he had thought of embellishing his feast with the few luxuries from Fairbairn’s cupboard. Nothing could exceed the good-humour of the two juniors as one delicacy after another unfolded its charms and invited their attention. They accompanied their exertions with a running fire of chat and chaff, which left Riddell very little to do except gently to steer the conversation round towards the point for which this merry meeting was designed.

“Frightful job to get old Parson to turn up,” said Telson, taking his fourth go-in of potted meat; “he thought you were going to row him about that shindy in the Parliament!”

“No, I didn’t,” rejoined Parson, pushing up his cup for more tea. “It was you said that about blowing up us Skyrockets.”

“What a howling cram,” said Telson. “I never make bad jokes. You know, Riddell, it was Parson stuck us up to that business. He’s always at the bottom of the rows.”

Parson laughed at this compliment.

“You mean I always get into the rows,” said he.

“Anyhow, I don’t suppose the Skyrockets will show up again this term,” said Telson.

“They certainly did not get much encouragement last time,” said Riddell, laughing. “You know I don’t think you fellows do yourselves justice in things like that. Fellows get to think the only thing you’re good at is a row.”

“Fact is,” said Parson, “Telson thought we’d been so frightfully snubbed this term, we kids, that he said we ought to stick up for ourselves.”

“I said that?” cried Telson. “Why, you know it was you said it!”

“By the way,” said Parson, “wasn’t there to be a special meeting of the House to-day, for something or other?”

Telson looked rather uncomfortable, and then said, “Yes, I heard so. I fancy it’s about you, somehow,” added he, addressing Riddell.

“About me?” asked the captain.

“Yes—to kick you out, or something,” said Telson; “but Parson and I mean to go and vote against it.”

This was news to Riddell, and rather astonishing news too.

“To kick me out?” he asked. “What for?”

“Oh, you know,” said Parson. “It’s some bosh about that boat-race affair. Some of the chaps think you are mixed up in it, but of course it’s all a cram. I’ve told them so more than once.”

“It’s all those Parrett’s cads,” said Telson, taking up the matter from a schoolhouse point of view. “They’re riled about the race, and about the cricket-match, and everything else, and try to make out every one’s cheating.”

“Well, some one must have been cheating,” said Parson, a trifle warmly, “when he cut my rudder-lines; and he’s not likely to be one of our fellows—much more likely to be a schoolhouse cad!”

“I’ll fight you, you know, Parson!” put in Telson.

Riddell saw it was time to interfere. The conversation was drifting into an unprofitable channel, from which it would scarcely work its way out unassisted.

What he wanted was to find out whether there was any truth in the explanation which the diary afforded of young Wyndham’s conduct, and he was a long way from that yet.

“Have some more cake, Telson,” said he, by way of changing the subject.

Telson cheerfully accepted the invitation, while Parson, to spare his host the trouble of pressing him to take an apple, helped himself.

Then when they were well started once more the captain said, “Who’s going to win the juniors’ match, Parson? Our fellows quite think they are.”

“Yes,” said Parson, contemptuously; “I heard they had cheek enough to say so. But they’ll be disappointed for once.”

“Well,” said Riddell, “they’ve been practising pretty steadily of late. They’re not to be despised. Whatever has become of the juniors’ eleven in the schoolhouse, Telson?”

“Can’t make out,” replied Telson; “they’re an awful set of louts this year; only one or two good men in the lot. I don’t think they can scrape up an eleven.”

“Ah!” said the captain, seeing his chance; “you’ve lost a good many good fellows. Wyndham, for one, has got up into the second-eleven, I hear.”

“Yes,” said Parson; “and jolly cocky he is about it, too!”

“He’s not been down at the practices lately, though,” said Telson, colouring slightly, and for no apparent reason.

“Why? Is he seedy?” said the captain.

“Eh! No; I don’t think so. Wyndham’s not seedy, is he, should you think, Parson?”

“No,” said Parson, exchanging uncomfortable glances with his ally; “not exactly seedy.”

“It’ll be a pity if he doesn’t get playing in the Templeton match,” said Riddell.

Would the fish bite? If the diary had spoken true, these two boys were at present very full of Wyndham’s affair, and a trifle indignant with the captain himself for his supposed intention of reporting that youth’s transgression at headquarters. If that were so, Riddell considered it possible that, after their honest fashion, they might take upon themselves to give him a piece of their mind, which was exactly what he wanted.

“The fact is,” said Telson, “Parson and I both think he’s down in the mouth.”

“Indeed?” asked the captain, busily buttering a fresh slice of toast.

“Yes. Haven’t you seen it?” asked Parson.

“He’s in a funk about something or other,” said Telson.

It was getting near now!

“What about, do you know?” asked the captain.

“Why, you know,” said Telson. “About being expelled, you know.”

“Expelled! What for?” asked Riddell; and the boy’s reply gave him a satisfaction quite out of proportion to its merits.

“About Beamish’s, you know,” said Telson, confidentially; “he thinks you’re going to report him.”

“And he’s bound to get expelled if you do,” said Parson.

“And how do you know about it?” asked the captain, quietly.

“Oh! you know, Parson and I spotted them—that is, Gilks and Silk and him—that night of Brown’s party. But we never told anybody, and don’t mean to, so I don’t know how it came out.”

“Anyhow,” said Parson, “if he’s to be expelled, Silk and Gilks ought to catch it too. I bet anything they took him there. Thanks! a little piece.”

This last sentence was in reply to an invitation to take some more cake.

Under cover of this diversion, Riddell, with thankful heart, continued to steer the talk out again into the main channel of school affairs, of which the affair of Wyndham junior was but one of many.

Before the meal was over it had got as far Eutropius, and he fairly won his guests’ hearts by announcing that he did not consider that historian’s Latin nearly as good as Caesar’s, an opinion which they endorsed with considerable heat.

All good things come to an end at last, and so did this breakfast, the end of which found the boys in as great good-humour as at the beginning. They thanked the captain most profusely for his hospitality, which they never doubted was meant as a recognition of their own sterling merits, and of the few attempts they had lately made to behave themselves; and, after inviting him to come to a concert they were about to give on the evening of the juniors’ match, took their departure.

“By the way,” said Riddell, as they were going, “do either of you know to whom this book belongs? I found it in the playground yesterday.”

A merry laugh greeted the appearance of Bosher’s diary, which the pair recognised as a very old friend.

“It’s old Bosher’s diary,” said Telson. “He’s always dropping it about. I believe he does it on purpose. I say, isn’t it frightful bosh?”

“It isn’t very clear in parts,” said the captain.

“Did he call you ‘evil,’ or ‘gross,’ or ‘ugly in the face,’ in the part you looked at?” asked Telson; “because, if so, we may as well lick him for you.”

“No, don’t do that,” said Riddell; “you had better give it him back, though, and advise him from me not to drop it about more than he can help. Good-bye.”

With a great weight off his mind, Riddell went down to first school that day a thankful though a humbled man.

What a narrow escape he had had of doing the boy he cared for most in Willoughby a grievous injustice. Indeed, by suspecting him privately he had done him injustice enough as it was, for which he could not too soon atone.

In the midst of his relief about the boat-race he could scarcely bring himself to regard seriously the boy’s real offence, bad as that had been; and, indeed, it was not until Wyndham himself referred to it that afternoon that its gravity occurred to him.

Just as the special meeting of the Parliament (convened by private invitation of Game and Ashley to a select few of their own way of thinking) was assembling, Wyndham, in compliance with a message from the captain, strolled out into the Big towards the very bench where yesterday he had had his memorable talk with Silk.

Riddell was waiting there for him, and as the boy approached, his wretched, haggard looks smote the captain’s heart with remorse.

He had scarcely the spirit to return Riddell’s salute as he seated himself beside him on the bench and waited for what was to come.

“Old fellow,” said Riddell, “don’t look so wretched. Things mayn’t be so bad as you think.”

“How could they be anything else?” said Wyndham, dolefully.

“If you’ll listen to me, and not look so frightfully down,” said the captain, “I’ll tell you.”

Wyndham made a feeble attempt to rouse himself, and turned to hear what the captain had to say.

“You wonder,” said Riddell, “how I came to know about that visit to Beamish’s. Would it astonish you to hear that till this time yesterday I never knew about it at all?”

“What!” exclaimed Wyndham, incredulously; “you were talking to me about it two or three days before.”

“So you thought. You thought when I said it was my duty to report it, and that the honour of the school was involved in it, and all that, that I was talking about that scrape at Beamish’s.”

“Of course you were,” said Wyndham. “What else could you have been talking about? I confessed it to you myself.”

“And you couldn’t see what the honour of the school had to do with your going to Beamish’s, could you?” asked Riddell.

“Well, no. Perhaps it has, but I didn’t see it at the time.”

“Of course not,” said the captain, “and if I had been thinking of Beamish’s I should never have said such a stupid thing.”

“Why, what do you mean?” said Wyndham, puzzled.

“Why, this. In all our talks you never once mentioned Beamish’s. You concluded what I suspected you of was this, and I concluded that the scrape you were confessing was the one I suspected you of.”

“What do you suspect me of, then?” inquired Wyndham, “if it wasn’t that?”

“I’m ashamed to say,” said the captain, “I suspected you of having cut the lines of Parrett’s rudder at the boat-race.”

Wyndham, in the shock of this announcement, broke out into an almost hysterical laugh.

“Suspected me of cutting the rudder-lines!” he gasped.

“Yes,” said Riddell, sorrowfully. “I’m ashamed to say it.”

“Why, however could you?” exclaimed the boy, in strange bewilderment.

Riddell quietly told him the whole story. Of the mysterious letter, of his visit to Tom the boat-boy, of the knife, of the recollection of Wyndham’s movements on the night in question, and then of his supposed admission of his guilt.

Wyndham listened to it all with breathless attention and wonder, and when it was all done sighed as he replied, “Why, Riddell, it’s like a story, isn’t it?”

“It is,” said the captain, “and rather a pitiful story as far as I am concerned.”

“Not a bit,” replied the boy, as sympathetically as if Riddell was the person to be pitied and he was the person who had wronged him. “It was all a misunderstanding. How on earth could you have helped suspecting me? Any one would have done the same.

“But,” added he, after a pause, “what ought I to do about Beamish’s? Of course that was no end of a scrape, and the mischief is, I promised those two cads never to say a word about it. By the way, you saw me with Silk on this bench yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes,” said Riddell; “you didn’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I should think I wasn’t. I’d been trying to get him to let me off that promise, and he had offered to do it for seven pounds, under condition. I might have closed with him if you hadn’t come past just then. He held me down to rile you, and I got so wild I rounded on him and made him in a frightful rage, and it’s very likely now he may tell Paddy if you don’t.”

“Not he,” said Riddell. “You’re well out of his clutches, old man, and it strikes me the best way you can atone for that affair is by keeping out of it for the future, and having no more to do with fellows like that.”

“What on earth should I have done,” said the boy, “without you to look after me? I’d have gone to the dogs, to a dead certainty.”

“It seems I can look after you rather too much sometimes,” said the captain. “Ah, there’s Silk coming this way. We needn’t stop, here to give him a return match. Come on.”

And the two friends rose and strolled off happily arm-in-arm.

Chapter Thirty One.

Welch’s versus Parrett’s Juniors.

“Of course,” said Riddell, as he and Wyndham strolled down by the river that afternoon, “now that your mystery is all cleared up we are as far off as ever finding out who really cut the rudder-lines.”

“Yes. My knife is the only clue, and that proves nothing, for I was always leaving it about, or lending it, or losing it. I don’t suppose I kept it one entire week in my pocket all the time I had it. And, for the matter of that, it’s not at all impossible I may have dropped it in the boat-house myself some time. I often used to change my jacket there.”

Riddell had half expected Wyndham would be able to afford some clue as to who had borrowed or taken the knife at that particular time. He was rather relieved to find that he could not.

“Tom the boat-boy,” said he, “distinctly says that the fellow who was getting out of the window dropped the knife as he did so. Of course that may be his fancy. Anyhow, I don’t want the knife any more, so you may as well take it.”

So saying he produced the knife from his pocket, and handed it to his companion.

“I don’t want the beastly thing,” cried Wyndham, taking it and pitching it into the middle of the river. “Goodness knows it’s done mischief enough! But, I say, whoever wrote that note must have known something about it.”

“Of course,” said the captain, “but he evidently intends the thing to be found out without his help.”

“Never mind,” said Wyndham, cheerily, “give yourself a little rest, old man, and come down and see the second-eleven practise. I’ve been too much up a tree to turn up lately, but I mean to do so this evening. I say, won’t it be jolly if my brother can come down to umpire in the match.”

“It will,” said Riddell, and the pair forthwith launched out into a discussion of the virtues of Wyndham senior, in which one was scarcely more enthusiastic than the other.

On their way back to the Big they met Parson and Telson, trotting down to the bathing sheds.

The faces of these two young gentlemen looked considerably perplexed as they saw the captain and his supposed victim walking arm-in-arm. However, with the delightful simplicity of youth they thought it must be all right somehow, and having important news of some sort to relate, they made no scruple about intruding on the interview.

“Oh, I say, Riddell,” began Telson, “we’ve just come from the Parliament. No end of a row. Last time was nothing to it!”

“What happened?” asked the captain.

“Why, you know,” said Parson, “it was Game and Ashley’s affair summoning this meeting. They sent round a private note or something telling the fellows there would be a special meeting, signed by Game, First Lord of the Admiralty, and Ashley, Home Secretary. A lot of the fellows were taken in by it and turned up, and of course they had taken good care not to summon anybody that was sweet on you. So it was a packed meeting. At least they thought so. But Telson and I showed up, and the whole lot of the Skyrockets, and gave them a lively time of it.”

“You see,” said Telson, eagerly taking up the narrative, “they didn’t guess we’d cut up rough, because we’ve been in rows of that sort once or twice before.”

Wyndham broke out laughing at this point.

“Have you, really?” he exclaimed.

“Well,” continued Telson, too full of his story to heed the interruption, “they stuck Game in the chair, and he made a frightfully rambling speech about you and that boat-race business. He said you knew who the chap was, and were sheltering him and all that, and that you were as bad every bit as if you’d done it yourself, and didn’t care a hang about the honour of the school, and a whole lot of bosh of that sort. We sung out ‘Oh, oh,’ and ‘Question,’ once or twice, but, you know, we were saving ourselves up. So Ashley got up and said he was awfully astonished to hear about it—howling cram, of course, for he knew about it as much as any one did—and he considered it a disgrace to the school, and the only thing to do was to kick you out, and he proposed it.”

“Then the shindy began,” said Parson. “We sent young Lawkins off to tell Crossfield what was going on, and directly Ashley sat down old Telson got up and moved an amendment. They tried to cry him down, but they couldn’t do it, could they?”

“Rather not,” said Telson, proudly. “I stuck there like a leech, and the fellows all yelled too, so that nobody could hear any one speak. We kept on singing out ‘Hole in the corner! Hole in the corner!’ for about twenty minutes, and there weren’t enough of them to turn us out. Then they tried to get round us by being civil, but we were up to that dodge. Parson went on after me, and then old Bosher, and then King, and then Wakefield, and when he’d done I started again.”

“You should have seen how jolly wild they got!” cried Parson. “A lot of the fellows laughed, and joined us too. Old Game and Ashley were regularly mad! They came round and bawled in our ears that they gave us a thousand lines each, and we’d be detained all the rest of the term. But we didn’t hear it; and when they tried to get at us we hit out with rulers, and they couldn’t do it. You never saw such a lark!”

“And presently Crossfield turned up,” said Telson. “My eye! you should have seen how yellow and green they looked when he dropped in and walked up to his usual place! We shut up for a bit as soon as he came—and, you know, I fancy they’d have sooner we kept it up. They were bound to say something when the row stopped. So Game tried to rush the thing through, and get the fellows to vote before Crossfield knew what was up. But he wasn’t to be done that way.”

“‘I didn’t quite hear what the motion was?’ says he, as solemn as a judge.

“‘Oh! it’s about the honour of the school. Riddell—’

“‘Excuse me, Mr Deputy-Chairman and ex-monitor,’ says Crossfield, and there was a regular laugh at that hit, because, of course, Game had no more right in the chair, now he’s not a monitor, than I had. ‘If it’s anything to do with the honour of the school, of course it couldn’t be in better hands than yours, who have summoned the meeting on the sly, and taken such care to select a nice little party!’

“They tried to stop him at that.

“‘You can’t stop the business now. We were just going to take the vote when you came in,’ said Game.

“‘Exactly!’ says Crossfield, propping himself up comfortably against the back of the form as if he was going to stay all night; ‘that’s just why I came, and that’s just why Bloomfield, and Porter, and Coates, and Fairbairn, and a few other gentlemen who have a sort of mild interest in the honour of the school—although it’s nothing, of course, to yours—are coming on too. They’ll be here before I’ve done my speech. By the way, one of you kids,’ said he, with a wink our way, ‘might go and fetch Riddell; he’d like to be here too.’

“We shoved young Wakefield out of the door to make believe to go and fetch you. But they’d had quite enough of it, and shut up the meeting all of a sudden.

“‘I adjourn the meeting!’ cried Game, as red as a turkey-cock.

“‘All right! that will suit me just as well,’ says Crossfield, grinning. ‘Is it to any particular day, or shall we get notice as before?’

“Of course they didn’t stop to answer, and so we gave no end of a cheer for old Crossfield, and then came on here.”

And having delivered themselves of this full, true, and particular account of the afternoon’s adventures, these two small heroes continued their trot down to the river to refresh their honest limbs after the day’s labours.

Their version of the proceedings was very little exaggerated, and, as Crossfield and several others who were present each entertained his own particular circle of friends with the same story, the whole affair became a joke against the luckless Game and Ashley.

Even their own house did not spare them, and as for Bloomfield, he evinced his displeasure in a way which surprised the two heroes.

“What’s all this foolery you’ve been up to, you two?” said he, coming into the preparation-room after tea, where most of the senior Parretts were assembled.

It was not flattering certainly to the two in question to have their noble protest for the honour of the school thus designated, and Game answered, rather sheepishly, “We’ve been up to no foolery!”

“You may not call it foolery,” said Bloomfield, who was in anything but a good temper, “but I do! Making the whole house ridiculous! Goodness knows there’s been quite enough done in that way without wanting your help to do more!”

“What’s the use of going on like that?” said Ashley. “You don’t suppose we did it to amuse ourselves, do you?”

“If you didn’t amuse yourselves you amused every one else,” growled Bloomfield. “Everybody’s laughing at us.”

“We felt something ought to be done about Riddell—” began Game.

“Felt! You’d no business to feel, if that’s the best you can show for it,” said Bloomfield. “You’ll never set things right!”

“Look here,” said Game, quickly, losing his temper; “you know well enough it was meant for the best, and you needn’t come and kick up a row like this before everybody! If you don’t care to have Riddell shown up, it is no reason why we shouldn’t!”

“A precious lot you’ve shown him up! If you’d wanted to get every one on his side, you couldn’t have done better. You don’t suppose any one would be frightened out of his skin by anything a couple of asses who’d been kicked out of the monitorship had to say?”

Bloomfield certainly had the habit of expressing himself warmly at times, and on the present occasion he may have done so rather more warmly than the case deserved. But he was put out and angry at the ridiculous performance of the Parrett’s boys, in which he felt the entire house was more or less compromised.

As to Riddell, Bloomfield still kept his own private opinion of him, but the difference between him and his more ardent comrades was that he had the sense to keep what he thought to himself.

At any rate, he gave deep offence now to Game and Ashley, who retired in high dudgeon and greatly crestfallen to proclaim their wrongs to a small and sympathetic knot of admirers.

Perhaps the most serious blow these officious young gentlemen had received—hardly second to their snubbing by the Parretts’ captain—had been the mutiny of their own juniors, on whose cooperation they had calculated to a dead certainty.

To find Parson, Bosher, King, and Co. standing up in defence of Riddell against them was a phenomenon so wonderful, when they came to think of it, that they were inclined to imagine they themselves were the only sane boys left out of a house of lunatics. And this was the only consolation that mixed with the affair at all.

As to these juniors, they had far more to think about. In three days the match with Welch’s would be upon them, and a panic ensued on the discovery.

They had been contemptuously confident of their superior prowess, and it was not until one or two of them had actually been down to inspect the play of the rival team, and Bloomfield had come down to one of their own practices and declared publicly that they were safe to be beaten hollow, that they regarded the coming contest seriously.

Then they went to work in grim earnest. Having broken with Game, on whom they had usually depended for “instruction and reproof,” they boldly claimed the services of Bloomfield, and even pressed the willing Mr Parrett into the service.

Mr Parrett pulled a very long face the first afternoon he came down to look at them. He had been coaching the Welchers for a week or two past, and therefore knew pretty well what their opponents ought to be. And he was bound to admit that the young Parretts were very much below the mark.

They had a few good men. Parson was a fair bat, and King bowled moderately; but the “tail” of the eleven was in a shocking condition. Everything that could be done during the next few days was done. But cricket is not a study which can be “crammed” up, like Virgil or Euclid; and, despite the united efforts of Bloomfield and Mr Parrett, and a few other authorities, the team was pronounced to be a “shady” one at best as it took its place on the field of battle.

Riddell had kept his men steadily at it to the last. With a generosity very few appreciated, he forbore to claim Mr Parrett’s assistance at all during the last few days of practice, but he got Fairbairn and one or two of the schoolhouse seniors instead, and with their help kept up the courage and hopes of the young Welchers, wisely taking care, however, by a little occasional judicious snubbing, to prevent them from becoming too cocky or sure of the result.

It was quite an event to see the Welchers’ flag hoisted once more on the cricket-ground. Indeed, it was such an event that the doctor himself came down to watch the play, while the muster of schoolboys was almost as large as at a senior house match.

Among all the spectators, none were more interested in the event than the seniors, who had taken upon themselves the responsibility of “coaching” their respective teams.

Riddell was quite excited and nervous as he watched his men go out to field, while Bloomfield, though he would have been the last to own it, felt decidedly fidgety for the fate of his young champions.

However, Parretts, who went in first, began better than any one expected. Parson and King went boldly—not to say rashly—to work from the outset, and knocked the bowling about considerably before a lucky ball from Philpot got round the bat of the former and demolished his wicket.

Wakefield followed, and he too managed to put a few runs together; but as soon as his wicket fell a dismal quarter of an hour followed for the Parretts. Boy after boy, in all the finery of spotless flannel and pads and gloves, swaggered up to the wicket, and, after taking “middle” in magnificent style, and giving a lordly glance round the field, as though to select the best point for placing their strokes, lifted their bats miserably at the first ball that came, and had no chance of lifting it at another.

It was a melancholy spectacle, and far more calculated to excite pity than amusement. Bloomfield chafed and growled for some time, and then, unable to stand it any longer, went off in disgust, leaving the young reprobates to their fate.

Scarcely less remarkable than the collapse of Parrett’s was the steadiness of Welch’s in the field. Although they had little to do, they did what there was to do neatly and well, and, unlike many junior elevens, did it quietly. The junior matches at Willoughby had usually been more famous for noise than cricket, but on this occasion the order of things was reversed, and Riddell, as he looked on and heard the compliments from all quarters bestowed on his young heroes, might be excused if he felt rewarded for all the labour and patience of the past month.

It offended him not at all to hear this good result attributed generally to Mr Parrett’s instructions. He knew it was true. Mr Parrett himself took care to disclaim any but a small amount of merit in the matter.

“It’s a wonder to me,” said he to Fairbairn, in the hearing of a good many seniors, who were wont to treat anything he had to say on athletic matters as authoritative—“it’s a wonder to me how Riddell, who is only a moderate player himself, has turned out such a first-rate eleven. He’s about the best cricket coach we have had, and I have seen several in my time. He has worked on their enthusiasm without stint, and next best to that, he has not so much hammered into them what they ought to do, as he has hammered out of them what they ought not to do. Three fellows out of five never think of that.”

“I’m sure they don’t,” said Fairbairn.

“See how steady they were all the innings, too!” continued Mr Parrett. “Three coaches out of five wouldn’t lay that down as the first rule of cricket; but it is, especially with youngsters. Be steady first, and be expert next. That’s the right order, and Riddell has discovered it. I would even back a steady eleven of moderate players against a rickety eleven of good ones. In fact, a boy can’t be a cricketer at all, or anything else, unless he’s steady. Now, you see, unless I am mistaken, they will give quite as good an account of themselves at the wickets as they did on the field.”

And off strolled the honest Mr Parrett, bat in hand, to umpire, leaving his hearers not a little impressed with the force of his views on the first principles of cricket.

The master’s prophecy was correct. The Welchers, notwithstanding the fact that they had only twenty-five runs to get to equal their rivals’ first innings, played a steady and careful innings, in which they just trebled the Parretts’ score. The bowling against them was not strong certainly, but they took no liberties with it. Indeed, both the captain and Mr Parrett had so ruthlessly denounced and snubbed anything like “fancy hitting,” that their batting was inclined to err on the side of the over-cautious, and more runs might doubtless have been made by a little freer swing of the bats. However, the authorities were well satisfied. Cusack carried his bat for eighteen, much to his own gratification; and of his companions, Pilbury, Philpot, and Walker each made double figures.

It required all Riddell’s authority, in the face of this splendid achievement, to keep his men from jeopardising their second innings in the field by yielding prematurely to elation.

“For goodness’ sake don’t hulloa till you’re out of the wood!” he said; “they may catch up on you yet. Seventy-five isn’t such a big score after all. If you don’t look out you’ll muddle your chance away, and then how small you’ll look!”

With such advice to hold them in check, they went out as soberly as before to field, and devoted their whole energies to the task of disposing of their enemies’ wickets for the fewest possible runs.

And they succeeded quite as well as before. Indeed, the second innings of the Parretts was a feeble imitation of their first melancholy performance. Parson, King, and Wakefield were the only three who made any stand, and even they fared worse than before. All the side could put together was twenty-one runs, and about this, even, they had great trouble.

When it became known that the Welchers had won the match by an innings and twenty-nine runs, great was the amazement of all Willoughby, and greater still was the mortification of the unlucky Parretts. No more was said about the grand concert in which they intended to celebrate their triumph. They evidently felt they had not much to be proud of, and, consequently, avoiding a public entry into their house, they slunk in quietly, and, shutting out the distant sounds of revelry and rejoicing in the victorious house, mingled their tears over a sympathetic pot of tea, to which even Telson was not invited.

Chapter Thirty Two.

A Climax to Everything.

Among the few Willoughbites who took no interest at all in the juniors’ match was Gilks.

It was hardly to be wondered at that he, a schoolhouse boy, should not concern himself much about a contest between the fags of Welch’s and Parrett’s. And yet, if truth were known, it would have been just the same had the match been the greatest event of the season, for Gilks, from some cause or other, was in no condition to care about anything.

He wandered about listlessly that afternoon, avoiding the crowded Big, and bending his steps rather to the unfrequented meadows by the river. What he was thinking about as he paced along none of the very few boys who met him that afternoon could guess, but that it was nothing pleasant was very evident.

At the beginning of this very term Gilks had been one of the noisiest and liveliest fellows in Willoughby. Although his principles had never been lofty, his spirits always used to be excellent, and those who knew him best could scarcely recognise now in the anxious, spiritless monitor the companion whose shout and laugh had been so familiar only a few months ago.

Among those who met him this afternoon was Wibberly. Wibberly, like Gilks, felt very little interest in the juniors’ match. He was one of the small party who yesterday had come in for such a smart snubbing from Bloomfield, and the only way to show his sense of the ingratitude of such treatment, especially towards an old toady like himself, was to profess no interest in an event which was notoriously interesting the Parretts’ captain.

So Wibberly strolled down that afternoon to the river, and naturally met Gilks.

The two were not by any means chums—indeed, they were scarcely to be called friends. But they had one considerable bond of sympathy in a common dislike for the schoolhouse, and still more for Riddell. Gilks, as the reader knows, was anything but a loyal schoolhouse man, and ever since he became a monitor had cast in his lot with the rival house. So that he was generally considered, and considered himself to be, quite as much of a Parrett as a “schoolhouser.”

“So you are not down looking at the little boys?” said Wibberly.

“No,” said Gilks.

“Awful rot,” said Wibberly, “making all that fuss about them!”

“Pleases them and doesn’t hurt us,” replied Gilks.

“In my opinion it’s all a bit of vanity on the part of Riddell. He’d like to make every one think he has been coaching his kids, and this is just a show-off.”

“Well, let him show off; who cares?” growled Gilks.

“All very well. He ought to be hooted round the school instead of flashing it there in the Big, the hypocritical cad!”

“Well, why don’t you go and do it?” said Gilks; “you’d get plenty to join you.”

“Would I? No, I wouldn’t. Even Bloomfield’s taking his part—he’s gammoned him somehow.”

“Well, that doesn’t prevent your going and hooting him, does it?” said Gilks, with a sneer. “You’ve a right to enjoy yourself as well as any one else.”

“What! have you come round to worship his holiness too?” asked Wibberly, who had at least expected some sympathy from Gilks.

“Not exactly!” said Gilks, bitterly; “but I’ve come round to letting the cad alone. What’s the good of bothering?”

“And you mean to say you’d let him go on knowing who the fellow is who cut the rudder-lines of our boat, and not make him say who it is?”

“I expect that’s all stuff about his knowing at all,” said Gilks.

“Not it! Between you and me, I fancy he’s had a tip from somewhere.”

“He has? Bah! don’t you believe it. He’d like to make believe he knows all about it. It would pay, you know.”

“But every one thinks he knows.”

“Not he! He would have told the fellow’s name long ago. Whatever object would he have in keeping it back?”

“Oh! I don’t know. He says some gammon about not being quite sure. But he’s had time enough to be sure by now.”

Gilks walked on in silence for a little, and then inquired, “And suppose you did get to know who it was, what would be the use?”

“The use!” exclaimed Wibberly, in amazement. “Why, what do you mean? By Jove, I’m sorry for the fellow when he turns up. He’ll soon find out the use of it.”

Gilks said nothing, but walked on evidently out of humour, and Wibberly having nothing better to do accompanied him.

“By the way,” said the latter, presently, seeing his companion was not disposed to continue the former conversation, “what’s up between you and Silk? Is it true you’ve had a row?”

Gilks growled out something which sounded very like an oath, and replied, “Yes.”

“What about?” inquired the inquisitive Wibberly, who seemed to have the knack of hitting upon unwelcome topics.

“It wouldn’t do you any good to know,” growled Gilks.

“I heard it was some betting row, or something of that sort,” said Wibberly.

“Eh?—yes—something of that sort,” said Gilks.

“Well,” said Wibberly, “I never cared much for Silk. He always seemed to know a little too much for me. I wouldn’t break my heart if I were you.”

“I don’t mean to,” said Gilks, but in a tone which belied the words, and even struck Wibberly by its wretchedness.

“I say,” said he, “you’re awfully down in the mouth these times. What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think anything’s wrong? I’m all right, I tell you,” said Gilks, half angrily.

Wibberly was half inclined to say that he would not have thought it if he had not been told so, but judging from his companion’s looks that this little pleasantry would not be appreciated, he forbore and walked on in silence.

It was a relief when Wibberly at length discovered that it was time for him to be going back. Gilks wanted nobody’s company, and was glad to be left alone.

And yet he would gladly have escaped even from his own company, which to judge by his miserable looks as he walked on alone was less pleasant than any.

He was sorry now he had not gone to watch the juniors, where at least he would have heard something less hateful than his own thoughts, and seen something less hateful than the dreary creations of his own troubled imagination.

“What’s the use of keeping it up?” said he, bitterly, to himself. “I don’t care! Things can’t be worse than they are. Down in the mouth! He’d be down in the mouth if he were!—the fool! I’ve a good mind to— And yet I daren’t face it. What’s the use of trusting to a fellow like Silk! Bah! how I hate him. He’ll betray me as soon as ever it suits him, and—and—oh, I don’t care. Let him!”

Gilks had reached this dismal climax in his reflections, when he suddenly became aware that the object of his meditations was approaching him.

Silk had his own reasons for not joining the throng that was looking on at the juniors’ match. It may have been mere lack of interest, or it may have been a special desire to take this walk. Whichever it was, his presence now was about as unwelcome an apparition as Gilks could have encountered, and the smile on the intruder’s face showed pretty clearly that he was aware of the fact.

“What are you prowling about here for?” said he as he came up, with all the insolence of a warder addressing a convict.

“I’ve a right to walk here if I choose,” replied Gilks, sulkily; “what are you here for?”

“To find you. I want to speak to you,” replied Silk.

“I don’t want to speak to you,” replied Gilks, moving on.

“Don’t you?” replied Silk, with a sneer. “You’ll have to do it whether you want or not, my boy.”

There was something about the Welcher which had the effect of cowing his companion, and Gilks, fuming inwardly, and with a face as black as thunder, said, “Well—say what you’ve got to say, and be done with it.”

Silk laughed.

“Thank you. I’ll take my time, not yours. Which way are you going?”

“No way at all,” said Gilks, standing still.

“Very well. I’m going this way. Come with me.”

And he began to walk on, Gilks sullenly following.

“You saw Wyndham the other day?” said Silk.

“Suppose I did?”

“What did he want?”

“I don’t know—some foolery or other. I didn’t listen to him.”

“You needn’t tell lies. What did he want, I say?”

“How should I know?” retorted Gilks.

“What did he want? do you hear?” repeated the other.

“He wanted me to let him blab about something—about Beamish’s it was.”

“And did you tell him he might?”

“Yes. I said he might blab about me too for all I cared. And so he may. I wish to goodness he would.”

“And whatever business had you to tell him he might say a word about it?” demanded Silk, angrily.

“What business? A good deal more business than you’ve got to ask me questions.”

“Do you know what he’s done?”

“No, I don’t; and I don’t care.”

“Don’t you care?” snarled Silk, fast losing his temper; “that foolery of yours has spoiled everything.”

“So much the better. I don’t care.”

“But I care!” exclaimed Silk, furiously, “and I’ll see you care too, you fool!”

“What’s happened, then?” asked Gilks.

“Why, Riddell—”

“For goodness’ sake don’t start on him!” cried Gilks, viciously; “he’s nothing to do with it.”

“Hasn’t he? That’s all you know, you blockhead! He suspected Wyndham of that boat-race business. I can’t make out how, but he did. And the young fool all along thought it was Beamish’s he was in a row about. But Riddell wouldn’t have known it to this day if you hadn’t given the young idiot leave to go and blab, and so clear it up.”

“Let him blab. I wish he’d clear up everything,” growled, or rather groaned, Gilks.

“Look here!” said Silk, stopping short in his walk and rounding on his victim. “I’ve had quite enough of this, and you’d better shut up. You know I could make you sorry for it if I chose.”

Gilks said nothing, but walked on sullenly.

“And the worse thing about it,” continued Silk, “is that now Wyndham and Riddell are as thick as brothers, and the young toady’s sure to tell him everything.”

“And suppose he does?”

“There’s no suppose about it. I don’t choose to have it, I tell you.”

“How can you help it?” said Gilks.

“We must get hold of the young ’un again,” said Silk, “and you’ll have to manage it.”

“Who?—I?” said Gilks, with a bitter laugh.

“Yes, you. And don’t talk so loud, do you hear? You’ll have to manage it, and I think I can put you up to a way for getting hold of him.”

“You can spare yourself the trouble,” said Gilks, stopping short and folding his arms doggedly. “I won’t do it.”

“What!” cried Silk, in a passion.

It was the second time in one week that Silk had been thus defied—each time by a boy whom he had imagined to be completely in his power. Wyndham’s mutiny had not wholly surprised him, but from Gilks he had never expected it.

“I won’t do it, there!” said Gilks, now fairly at bay and determined enough.

Silk glared at him for a moment, then laughed scornfully.

“You won’t? You know what you are saying?”

“Yes, I know,” said Gilks.

“And you know what I shall do?”

“Yes, you’ll tell—”

Silk’s face fell. He was beginning to discover that once more he had overdone his part, and that the ground was taken from under him. But he made one last effort to recover himself.

“I say, Gilks,” said he, half coaxing, half warning, “don’t be a fool. Don’t ruin yourself. I didn’t mean to be offensive. You know it’s as much in your interest as mine. If we can get hold of young Wyndham again—”

“If you want him, get him yourself, I’m not going to do it,” once more said Gilks, with pale face and clenched teeth.

Silk’s manner changed once more. His face became livid, and his eyes flashed, as he sprang at Gilks, and with a sudden blow, exclaimed, “Take that, then!”

It was as good as proclaiming that the game was over. As Gilks’s guilty confidant he had retained to the last some sort of influence; but now, with that blow, the last shred of his superiority had gone, and he stood there beaten before ever the fight began.

Gilks had expected the blow, but had not been prepared for its suddenness. It struck him full on the cheek, and for a moment staggered him—but only for a moment. Wasting no words, he returned it vehemently, and next moment the fight had begun.

That fight was not the growth of a day or a week. For many weeks it had been getting nearer and nearer, sometimes by rapid strides, sometimes by imperceptible steps; but always getting nearer, until now it had suddenly reached its climax; and the cry, “A fight—Gilks and Silk!” spread like wildfire over Willoughby.

The Welchers, in the heyday of their triumph, heard it above even the chorus of the glorious Bouncer; and hearing it, forsook their revelry and hurried towards it. The Parretts quitted their melancholy teapot, and rushed with one accord to the spot. And ere they reached it Telson was there, and many a schoolhouse Limpet, and Game, and Ashley, and Wibberly, from Parrett’s; and Tucker, and I know not what crowds from Welch’s. And they crowded round, and took sides, and speculated on the result, and cheered impartially every hit.

Far be it from me to describe that fight. It was no different from twenty other fights that same term, except from the one fact that the combatants were seniors. No one cared an atom about the quarrels or its merits. It was quite enough that it was an even match—that there was plenty of straight hitting and smart parrying, and that it lasted over a quarter of an hour.

It was a wonder it lasted so long. Not that the men could not stay, but because no monitor with power to stop it appeared on the scene. Indeed, the only monitor present was Gilks himself, and he took no steps to end the conflict.

At length, however, while the result was still undecided, a cry of “Cave!” was raised.

“Look out, here’s Riddell!” cried some small boy.

A round was just beginning, and neither combatant evinced any desire to desist on account of the captain’s approach.

Riddell was not alone, Fairbairn was with him, and, being naturally attracted by the crowd and shouting, they both hurried up in time to see the end of the round.

As soon as it was over they pushed their way in among the crowd and entered the ring.

“Stop the fight!” said Riddell.

The two combatants glared at him angrily, and Gilks replied, “Who says so?”

“I say so,” said Riddell, quietly.

The days were long gone by when the captain issued his orders in an apologetic voice and a diffident manner. He had learned enough during this term to discover the value of a little self-confidence, and had profited by the discovery. Willoughby was far more docile to an order than to a request, and on the present occasion neither Gilks nor Silk seemed disposed to argue the matter.

They put on their jackets sulkily, and, without further words to one another or to the monitors, betook their battered selves to their several quarters.

Willoughby, perceiving that the matter was at an end, also dispersed and returned to its several quarters. The Welchers resumed their interrupted revel with unabated rejoicing; the melancholy Parretts called for more hot water to eke out the consolations of their teapot; the Limpets turned in again to their preparation, and the seniors to their studies—every one criticising the fight, and wondering how it would have ended, but scarcely one troubling himself much about its merit, and less still about its consequences.

One of these consequences the principals in the engagement were not long in learning. A message arrived for each, before the evening was over, that they were reported to the doctor, and were to go to his room at nine next morning.

Silk did not get the message till late, as he had been absent most of the evening in Tucker’s study, who was an expert at repairing the damage incurred in a pugilistic encounter.

When about bedtime he returned to his own study and found the captain’s note lying on the table, he broke out into a state of fury which, to say the least of it, it was well there was no one at hand to witness.

Late as the hour was, he went at once to Riddell’s study.

Riddell was half-undressed as his visitor entered. “What do you want?” he inquired.

“I want you! Do you mean to say you’ve reported me to the doctor?”

“Of course. It was a fight. I’m bound to report it.”

“Bound to report it. You snivelling humbug! Have you sent the name up yet?”

“Why do you want to know?” said Riddell, who had ceased to be in bodily fear of Silk for some time past.

“Because I want to know. Have you sent it up?”

“I have.”

“All right, you’ll be sorry for it,” said Silk.

“I am sorry for it,” replied the captain.

Silk saw at a glance that the captain was not to be bullied, and changed his tone.

“I suppose you know,” said he, “we shall both be expelled?”

“The doctor doesn’t usually expel for fighting,” said the captain.

“Of course not. But you remember getting a note from me a little time ago.”

“From you? No; I never had a note from you.”

“What, not one telling you to go down and see Tom the boat-boy?”

“Was that from you?” exclaimed Riddell, in astonishment.

“Of course it was. And of course you know now what I mean.”

“I don’t. I could discover nothing,” said the captain.

“You mean to say you don’t know who cut the rudder-lines?”

“No; who?”

“Gilks!”

Chapter Thirty Three.

A Treaty of Peace.

The captain’s first impulse on receiving from Silk this astounding piece of information was to go at once to the schoolhouse and confront Gilks with his accuser.

But his second impulse was to doubt the whole story and look upon it as a mere fabrication got up in the vague hope of preventing him from reporting the fight to the doctor.

It was absurd to suppose Gilks had cut the rudder-lines. Not that it was an action of which he would be incapable. On that score the accusation was likely enough. But then, Riddell remembered, Gilks, though a schoolhouse boy, had all along been a strong partisan of the Parretts’ boat, and, ever since he had been turned out of his own boat, had made no secret of his hope that Parrett’s might win. He had even, if rumours spoke truly, lost money on the race. How was it likely, then, he would do such an absurd thing as cut the rudder-lines of the very boat he wanted to win, and on whose success he had even made a bet?

It was much more likely that Silk had made this wild charge for the sake of embarrassing the captain, and leading him to reconsider his determination to report the fight.

And what followed partly confirmed this idea.

“You don’t want to get both Gilks and me expelled?” said Silk, with a half-whine very different from his late bullying tones.

“The doctor never expels fellows for fighting.”

“But he will when he finds out all this other business,” said Silk.

“I really can’t help that,” said the captain, not quite seeing how the two offences were involved one with another.

“It’s bound to come out,” continued Silk, “and Gilks will bring me into it too. I say, can’t you get back the names?”

“Certainly not,” said the captain.

“You were glad enough to hush it all up when you thought it was young Wyndham had done it,” said Silk.

The captain winced, and Silk was quick enough to see it.

“You profess to be fair and honest. Do you call it fair to shelter one fellow because he’s your friend, and tell about another because he isn’t? Eh, Riddell?”

It was not a bad move on Silk’s part. The question thrust home, and had he been content to leave the matter there, it might have been some time before the captain, with his own scrupulous way of regarding things, would have detected its fallacies. But, not for the first time, Silk overdid it.

“Besides,” said he, seeing he had made an impression, and foolishly thinking to follow it up—“besides, young Wyndham’s a long way from being out of the wood himself yet. Of course I don’t want to do it, but I could make it rather awkward for him if I chose.”

The captain fired up scornfully, but Silk did not notice it, and continued, “You wouldn’t like to see him expelled, would you? If I were to tell all I know about him, he would be, to a certainty.”