Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.In which Heathcote mounts high and falls low.George Heathcote celebrated the early hours of his holiday by “sleeping in,” until the boom of the Chapel bell shot him headlong out of bed into his garments.Coote, who had not yet mastered the art of venturing into Chapel alone, grew more and more pale as the hand of the clock crawled on, and the desperate alternative loomed before him, either of sharing his unpunctual friend’s fate, or else of facing the exploit of walking unaided into his stall in the presence of gazing Templeton.He had almost made up his heroic mind to the latter course, when a sound, as of coals being shot into a cellar, broke the stillness of the morning air; and next moment, Heathcote descended the stairs at the rate of five steps a second.“Come on, you idiot; put it on!” he cried, as he reached Coote, and swept him forward towards the Chapel.It was a close shave. Swinstead was shutting the door as Heathcote got his first foot in, and, but that the usher was unprepared for the desperate assault of the two juniors, and lost a second in looking to see what was the matter, Coote would have scored his first bad mark, and Heathcote’s name would have figured, for the fifth or sixth time that term, on the monitor’s black list.As the latter young gentleman had nothing but his trousers, slippers, and coat on over his nightshirt, he deemed it prudent to bolt as soon as chapel was over, so as to elude the vigilant eyes of the authorities. He, therefore, saw nothing of Dick as he came out; and Dick, as we have seen, had too much on hand, just then, to see him.At length, however, when the toilet was complete, and the glorious liberty from lessons began to swell our heroes’ breasts, Heathcote’s thoughts turned to Dick.“Where’s old Dick?” said he to Coote; “did you see him at breakfast?”“Yes; he was at the other table. But I didn’t see where he went afterwards.”Heathcote didn’t like it. Dick had done him a bad turn yesterday over that levee business, and the least he could have done to-day would have been to find him out and make things jolly again.But, instead of that, he had vanished, and left it to Heathcote to find him out. “Go and see where he is,” said he to Coote.The meek Coote obeyed, and took a cursory trot round the School Fields in search of his leader. No Dick was there, and no one had seen him.Heathcote’s face grew longer as he heard the report. It was getting serious. Dick was not only ill-treating him; he was cutting him.He went off to Cresswell’s study, as a last chance. The study was empty; and even the caps were gone from the pegs. Base desertion!As he left the study he met Pledge.“Ah, youngster! Going to grind all to-day?”“I was looking for Dick.”“Oh! David looking for Jonathan. Poor chap! Johnny has given you the slip this time.”“Where has he gone?” asked Heathcote, trying to appear indifferent.“The saintly youth has gone for a day’s fishing in the Bay, with the dearly-beloved Cresswell and the reverend Freckleton. They have got him an exeat from the Doctor, they have bought him lines and bait, they have filled his pockets with good things. So you see piety pays after all, Georgie. What a pity you are not pious, too! You wouldn’t be left so lonely if you were.”Heathcote was too hard hit to reply; and Pledge was kind enough not to attempt any further consolation.It had been coming to this for weeks past. Georgie had refused to believe it as long as he could. He had stuck to his chum, and borne all the rebuffs which had rewarded him, patiently. He had even made excuses for Dick, and tried to think that their friendship was as strong as ever.But now he saw that all the time Dick had been falling away and cutting himself adrift. This was why he left the “Select Sociables” the moment Heathcote joined them. This was why he went to the levee as soon as he saw Heathcote was not going. And this was why he had hidden out of the way this morning, for fear Heathcote should find out where he was going, and want to come too.Georgie laughed bitterly to himself, as he made the discovery. As if he cared for fishing, or boating, or sandwiches! As if he cared about being cooped up in a tarry boat the livelong day, with a couple of such fellows as Cresswell and Freckleton! As if he couldn’t enjoy himself alone or with Coote—poor young Coote, who had come to Templeton believing Dick to be his friend, whereas Dick, in his eagerness to toady to the “saints,” would let him go to the dogs, if it wasn’t that he, Heathcote, was there to befriend him.So Heathcote went forth defiant, with Coote at his heels, resolved to let Templeton see he could enjoy himself without Dick.He laughed extravagantly at nothing; he feigned to delight himself in the company of every idler he came across; he scorned loudly such stupid sport as fishing, or tennis, or fives.He meant to make his mark. And then Dick, when he came back, would gnash his teeth withenvyand wish woe to the hour when he was fool enough to desert his noblest friend!“Tell you what’ll be a lark, Coote,” said Heathcote, as the two strode on, arm in arm, followed by a small crowd of juniors, who, seeing they were “on the swagger,” hoped to be in the sport as spectators. “Tell you what; we’ll have a walk round the roofs. I know where we can get up. We can get nearly all round the Quad. Won’t it be a spree?”Coote looked as delighted as he could, and said he hoped they wouldn’t be caught, or there might be a row.“Bless you, no one’s about to-day. Come on. Nobody’s done it since Fitch fell off a year ago, and he only got half round.”Coote was inwardly most reluctant to deprive the late Master Fitch of his hard-earned laurels, and even hinted as much. But Heathcote was in no humour for paltering. He was playing a high game, and Coote must play, too.So they gave their followers the slip, and dodged their way back to the Quad, and made for the first staircase next to the Great Gate. Up here they crept, hurriedly and stealthily. One or two boys met them on the way, but Georgie swaggered past them, as though bound to pay an ordinary morning call on some occupant of the top floor. The top floor of all was dedicated to the use of the maids, who at that hour of the day were too much occupied elsewhere in making beds and filling jugs, to be at all inconvenient.Heathcote, who, considering he had never made the expedition before, was wonderfully well up in the geography of the place, piloted Coote up a sort of ladder which ended in a trap-door in the ceiling of the garret.“I know it’s up here,” he said. “Raggles told me it was the way Fitch got up.”“Oh!” said Coote, hanging tight on to the ladder with both arms, and trusting that, whichever way they ascended, they might select a different mode of descent from that adopted by the unfortunate Fitch.Horrors! The trap-door was padlocked!Joy! The padlock was not locked!They opened the flap, and scrambled into a cavernous space between the ceiling and the roof, from which, to Coote’s relief, there seemed no exit, except by the door at which they entered.Heathcote, however, was not to be put off, and scrambled round the place on his hands and knees, in search of the hole in the roof, which he knew, on Raggles’ authority, was there.It was there, at the very end of the gable: a little manhole, just big enough to let a small body through to clear the gutter, and no more.“Hurrah, old man!” shouted Heathcote, in a whisper, to his follower, who still lingered at the trap-door. “I’ve got it. Shut that door down, and crawl over here. Mind you keep on the rafters, or you’ll drop through.”“Hurrah!” said Coote, pensively, as he proceeded to obey.In two minutes they were out upon the roof, and enjoying a wonderful bird’s-eye view of Templeton and the coast beyond.A moderately broad gutter ran round the roof on the inside of the Quadrangle, with a low stone parapet at the edge. Along this the two boys crawled slowly and cautiously, until they had reached about the middle of their side of the Quadrangle.It was dizzy work, looking down from their eminence; but glorious. Even Coote, now the venture had been made, and no relics of the late Master Fitch had appeared, began to enjoy himself.“What a pity Dick isn’t here!” said he.“Rather! Won’t he look blue when he hears of it?” said Heathcote. “Hullo! there are some of the fellows in the Quad. There’s Pauncefote, isn’t it? I vote we yell.”“Perhaps somebody would hear. Hadn’t we better chuck a stone.”Heathcote detached a piece of plaster from the gutter, and pitched it neatly down within an inch of the head of the unsuspecting Pauncefote. That hero started, and looked first at the stone, then at the sky. Finally his eyes met Georgie’s triumphant face beaming over the parapet, side by side with the rosy countenance of Coote.It was enough. In another two minutes the Den knew what was going on, and Georgie and Coote were the heroes of the hour.Moved by a desire to afford their spectators an entertainment worthy of their applause, they proceeded to make the round of the Quadrangle at a smart, though not always steady, pace; for their attention was so much divided between the gutter before them and the upturned faces below them, that they were once or twice decidedly close on the heels of the luckless Fitch.Once, when they came to a comparatively broad landing, they varied the entertainment by swarming a little way up the tiles and sliding gracefully down again, regardless of tailors’ bills; and when the spectators got tired of that, they treated them to a little horse-play by pelting them with bits of plaster, and finally with Coote’s hat.Even the highest class of entertainment cannot thrill for ever, and after a quarter of an hour of this edifying exhibition, the Den found they had had enough of it, and began to saunter off, much to the amazement of the two performers.“May as well cut down,” said Heathcote, when at length the Quad was deserted, and nothing seemed likely to be gained by remaining.Coote was quite ready to obey. He had enjoyed his outing pretty well, but was rather tired of standing with one foot in front of the other, and keeping his eyes on Georgie.He was nearest to the trap-door and had already crouched through it when Heathcote, perceiving that one of the Den had come back for another look, decided, in the kindness of his heart, to take one last turn round before retiring.He had accomplished half his journey, and was glancing down rather anxiously to see if the boy was enjoying it, when a second-floor window on the opposite side suddenly opened and Mansfield looked out.This apparition nearly sent Georgie headlong over the parapet. He saved himself by dropping on his hands and knees. He wasn’t sure whether the Captain had seen him or not. If he had, he was in for it. If he had not, why on earth did he stand there at the window?Georgie’s performance ended in a humiliating wriggle back along the gutter to the trap-door. He dared not show so much as his “whisker” above the parapet, and as the parapet was only high enough to conceal him as he lay full length on his face, the return journey was both painful and tedious.At last he reached the door where the faithful Coote anxiously awaited him, wondering what had kept him, and not sure whether the peculiar manner in which he advanced to the door was to be regarded as a joke or a feat of agility.As Heathcote did not gratify his curiosity on this point, he received the hero with a smile of mingled humour and admiration, and then followed him in his precipitate descent to the lower world.At the bottom of the staircase, Duffield was comfortably lounging.“Hullo, kids!” he said, “you’ve got down then? What a mess you’re in! Mansfield wants you, Heathcote.”And the messenger departed, whistling a cheery tune, and dribbling Coote’s cap, after the straightest rules of the Association, across the Quad before him.Heathcote’s face lengthened. This was the triumphal reception which was to greet him on his return to earth, the mention of which was to set Dick’s teeth gnashing!He walked sulkily to Mansfield’s study, and knew his fate almost before he entered the room.The Captain was stern and cutting. He wasted few words in inquiry, still fewer in expostulation.“You’re one of the boys it’s no use talking to,” he said, almost scornfully. “You’ll be glad to hear I’m not going to talk to you. I’m going to thrash you.”And that beautiful holiday morning George Heathcote was thrashed in a manner which hurt and startled him.He fled from the Captain’s presence, sore both in body and mind. But, strange to say, his chief wrath was reserved not for the Captain, but for Dick. His mind, once poisoned, contrived to connect Dick with every calamity that came upon him. And it enraged him to think that at this moment, while he was smarting under the penalty of a straightforward honest breach of rules, inflicted by a senior whose chief quarrel with him was that he had had the pluck to stay away from levée, Dick was reaping the benefit of his toadyism and basking in the sunshine of the powers that were.Pledge, as might be expected, did nothing to discourage this feeling. He was not a bit surprised. He had expected it, and he knew equally well it was but the beginning of a settled programme. Heathcote had better not keep up the contest. He had better knuckle under at once, as Dick had done, and enjoy a quiet time. Or, if he must break rules, let him remember that fellows could lie, and cheat, and sneak in Templeton, and never once be interfered with by the holy monitors; but when once they took to walking on the roofs—why, where could they expect to go to when they descended to such a depth of wickedness as that?Heathcote spend a miserable afternoon, letting his misfortune and Pledge’s words rankle in his breast till he hated the very name of Dick and goodness.In due time the three fishers returned that evening tired with their hard day’s work, and bronzed with the sun and breeze.Dick looked serious and anxious as he followed his seniors into the Quadrangle, carrying the ulsters and the empty luncheon basket.“Ah,” thought Heathcote, as he watched him from a retired nook, “he’s ashamed of himself. He well may be.”The two seniors turned in at Westover’s door, leaving Dick to continue his walk alone.Now was Heathcote’s time. Emerging from his corner he put his hands carelessly in his pockets and advanced to meet his former friend, whistling a jaunty tune.He was half afraid Dick might not see him, but Dick had a quick eye for a friend, and hailed him half across the Quadrangle.“Hullo, Georgie, old man!” said he, running up. “So awfully sorry you couldn’t come on our spree too. What’s the matter?”What, indeed? Georgie, with an elaborate air of unconsciousness either of the voice or the presence of his comrade, walked on looking straight in front of him and whistling more jauntily than ever.Dick stood for a moment aghast. He would fain have believed his chum had either not seen him or was joking. But a sinking at his heart told him otherwise, and a rush of anger told him that whatever the reason might be it was an unjust one.So he checked his inclination to pursue his friend and demand an explanation there and then, and strolled on, whistling himself.Heathcote pursued his dignified walk until he concluded he might safely stop whistling and venture to peep round.When he did so he was dismayed to see Dick walking arm in arm across the Quadrangle with Coote, laughing at some narration which that pliable young gentleman was giving.Poor Georgie! This was the hardest blow of all. If Dick had appeared crushed, if he had even looked hurt, or said one word of regret, Georgie’s heart would have been comforted and his wrath abated.But to have his elaborate demonstration of rebuke ignored and quietly passed by in favour of Coote was too much! Georgie could not bear it. Pledge and all Pledge’s sophistry vanished in a moment with the loss of his friend.If Dick would only give him another chance!

George Heathcote celebrated the early hours of his holiday by “sleeping in,” until the boom of the Chapel bell shot him headlong out of bed into his garments.

Coote, who had not yet mastered the art of venturing into Chapel alone, grew more and more pale as the hand of the clock crawled on, and the desperate alternative loomed before him, either of sharing his unpunctual friend’s fate, or else of facing the exploit of walking unaided into his stall in the presence of gazing Templeton.

He had almost made up his heroic mind to the latter course, when a sound, as of coals being shot into a cellar, broke the stillness of the morning air; and next moment, Heathcote descended the stairs at the rate of five steps a second.

“Come on, you idiot; put it on!” he cried, as he reached Coote, and swept him forward towards the Chapel.

It was a close shave. Swinstead was shutting the door as Heathcote got his first foot in, and, but that the usher was unprepared for the desperate assault of the two juniors, and lost a second in looking to see what was the matter, Coote would have scored his first bad mark, and Heathcote’s name would have figured, for the fifth or sixth time that term, on the monitor’s black list.

As the latter young gentleman had nothing but his trousers, slippers, and coat on over his nightshirt, he deemed it prudent to bolt as soon as chapel was over, so as to elude the vigilant eyes of the authorities. He, therefore, saw nothing of Dick as he came out; and Dick, as we have seen, had too much on hand, just then, to see him.

At length, however, when the toilet was complete, and the glorious liberty from lessons began to swell our heroes’ breasts, Heathcote’s thoughts turned to Dick.

“Where’s old Dick?” said he to Coote; “did you see him at breakfast?”

“Yes; he was at the other table. But I didn’t see where he went afterwards.”

Heathcote didn’t like it. Dick had done him a bad turn yesterday over that levee business, and the least he could have done to-day would have been to find him out and make things jolly again.

But, instead of that, he had vanished, and left it to Heathcote to find him out. “Go and see where he is,” said he to Coote.

The meek Coote obeyed, and took a cursory trot round the School Fields in search of his leader. No Dick was there, and no one had seen him.

Heathcote’s face grew longer as he heard the report. It was getting serious. Dick was not only ill-treating him; he was cutting him.

He went off to Cresswell’s study, as a last chance. The study was empty; and even the caps were gone from the pegs. Base desertion!

As he left the study he met Pledge.

“Ah, youngster! Going to grind all to-day?”

“I was looking for Dick.”

“Oh! David looking for Jonathan. Poor chap! Johnny has given you the slip this time.”

“Where has he gone?” asked Heathcote, trying to appear indifferent.

“The saintly youth has gone for a day’s fishing in the Bay, with the dearly-beloved Cresswell and the reverend Freckleton. They have got him an exeat from the Doctor, they have bought him lines and bait, they have filled his pockets with good things. So you see piety pays after all, Georgie. What a pity you are not pious, too! You wouldn’t be left so lonely if you were.”

Heathcote was too hard hit to reply; and Pledge was kind enough not to attempt any further consolation.

It had been coming to this for weeks past. Georgie had refused to believe it as long as he could. He had stuck to his chum, and borne all the rebuffs which had rewarded him, patiently. He had even made excuses for Dick, and tried to think that their friendship was as strong as ever.

But now he saw that all the time Dick had been falling away and cutting himself adrift. This was why he left the “Select Sociables” the moment Heathcote joined them. This was why he went to the levee as soon as he saw Heathcote was not going. And this was why he had hidden out of the way this morning, for fear Heathcote should find out where he was going, and want to come too.

Georgie laughed bitterly to himself, as he made the discovery. As if he cared for fishing, or boating, or sandwiches! As if he cared about being cooped up in a tarry boat the livelong day, with a couple of such fellows as Cresswell and Freckleton! As if he couldn’t enjoy himself alone or with Coote—poor young Coote, who had come to Templeton believing Dick to be his friend, whereas Dick, in his eagerness to toady to the “saints,” would let him go to the dogs, if it wasn’t that he, Heathcote, was there to befriend him.

So Heathcote went forth defiant, with Coote at his heels, resolved to let Templeton see he could enjoy himself without Dick.

He laughed extravagantly at nothing; he feigned to delight himself in the company of every idler he came across; he scorned loudly such stupid sport as fishing, or tennis, or fives.

He meant to make his mark. And then Dick, when he came back, would gnash his teeth withenvyand wish woe to the hour when he was fool enough to desert his noblest friend!

“Tell you what’ll be a lark, Coote,” said Heathcote, as the two strode on, arm in arm, followed by a small crowd of juniors, who, seeing they were “on the swagger,” hoped to be in the sport as spectators. “Tell you what; we’ll have a walk round the roofs. I know where we can get up. We can get nearly all round the Quad. Won’t it be a spree?”

Coote looked as delighted as he could, and said he hoped they wouldn’t be caught, or there might be a row.

“Bless you, no one’s about to-day. Come on. Nobody’s done it since Fitch fell off a year ago, and he only got half round.”

Coote was inwardly most reluctant to deprive the late Master Fitch of his hard-earned laurels, and even hinted as much. But Heathcote was in no humour for paltering. He was playing a high game, and Coote must play, too.

So they gave their followers the slip, and dodged their way back to the Quad, and made for the first staircase next to the Great Gate. Up here they crept, hurriedly and stealthily. One or two boys met them on the way, but Georgie swaggered past them, as though bound to pay an ordinary morning call on some occupant of the top floor. The top floor of all was dedicated to the use of the maids, who at that hour of the day were too much occupied elsewhere in making beds and filling jugs, to be at all inconvenient.

Heathcote, who, considering he had never made the expedition before, was wonderfully well up in the geography of the place, piloted Coote up a sort of ladder which ended in a trap-door in the ceiling of the garret.

“I know it’s up here,” he said. “Raggles told me it was the way Fitch got up.”

“Oh!” said Coote, hanging tight on to the ladder with both arms, and trusting that, whichever way they ascended, they might select a different mode of descent from that adopted by the unfortunate Fitch.

Horrors! The trap-door was padlocked!

Joy! The padlock was not locked!

They opened the flap, and scrambled into a cavernous space between the ceiling and the roof, from which, to Coote’s relief, there seemed no exit, except by the door at which they entered.

Heathcote, however, was not to be put off, and scrambled round the place on his hands and knees, in search of the hole in the roof, which he knew, on Raggles’ authority, was there.

It was there, at the very end of the gable: a little manhole, just big enough to let a small body through to clear the gutter, and no more.

“Hurrah, old man!” shouted Heathcote, in a whisper, to his follower, who still lingered at the trap-door. “I’ve got it. Shut that door down, and crawl over here. Mind you keep on the rafters, or you’ll drop through.”

“Hurrah!” said Coote, pensively, as he proceeded to obey.

In two minutes they were out upon the roof, and enjoying a wonderful bird’s-eye view of Templeton and the coast beyond.

A moderately broad gutter ran round the roof on the inside of the Quadrangle, with a low stone parapet at the edge. Along this the two boys crawled slowly and cautiously, until they had reached about the middle of their side of the Quadrangle.

It was dizzy work, looking down from their eminence; but glorious. Even Coote, now the venture had been made, and no relics of the late Master Fitch had appeared, began to enjoy himself.

“What a pity Dick isn’t here!” said he.

“Rather! Won’t he look blue when he hears of it?” said Heathcote. “Hullo! there are some of the fellows in the Quad. There’s Pauncefote, isn’t it? I vote we yell.”

“Perhaps somebody would hear. Hadn’t we better chuck a stone.”

Heathcote detached a piece of plaster from the gutter, and pitched it neatly down within an inch of the head of the unsuspecting Pauncefote. That hero started, and looked first at the stone, then at the sky. Finally his eyes met Georgie’s triumphant face beaming over the parapet, side by side with the rosy countenance of Coote.

It was enough. In another two minutes the Den knew what was going on, and Georgie and Coote were the heroes of the hour.

Moved by a desire to afford their spectators an entertainment worthy of their applause, they proceeded to make the round of the Quadrangle at a smart, though not always steady, pace; for their attention was so much divided between the gutter before them and the upturned faces below them, that they were once or twice decidedly close on the heels of the luckless Fitch.

Once, when they came to a comparatively broad landing, they varied the entertainment by swarming a little way up the tiles and sliding gracefully down again, regardless of tailors’ bills; and when the spectators got tired of that, they treated them to a little horse-play by pelting them with bits of plaster, and finally with Coote’s hat.

Even the highest class of entertainment cannot thrill for ever, and after a quarter of an hour of this edifying exhibition, the Den found they had had enough of it, and began to saunter off, much to the amazement of the two performers.

“May as well cut down,” said Heathcote, when at length the Quad was deserted, and nothing seemed likely to be gained by remaining.

Coote was quite ready to obey. He had enjoyed his outing pretty well, but was rather tired of standing with one foot in front of the other, and keeping his eyes on Georgie.

He was nearest to the trap-door and had already crouched through it when Heathcote, perceiving that one of the Den had come back for another look, decided, in the kindness of his heart, to take one last turn round before retiring.

He had accomplished half his journey, and was glancing down rather anxiously to see if the boy was enjoying it, when a second-floor window on the opposite side suddenly opened and Mansfield looked out.

This apparition nearly sent Georgie headlong over the parapet. He saved himself by dropping on his hands and knees. He wasn’t sure whether the Captain had seen him or not. If he had, he was in for it. If he had not, why on earth did he stand there at the window?

Georgie’s performance ended in a humiliating wriggle back along the gutter to the trap-door. He dared not show so much as his “whisker” above the parapet, and as the parapet was only high enough to conceal him as he lay full length on his face, the return journey was both painful and tedious.

At last he reached the door where the faithful Coote anxiously awaited him, wondering what had kept him, and not sure whether the peculiar manner in which he advanced to the door was to be regarded as a joke or a feat of agility.

As Heathcote did not gratify his curiosity on this point, he received the hero with a smile of mingled humour and admiration, and then followed him in his precipitate descent to the lower world.

At the bottom of the staircase, Duffield was comfortably lounging.

“Hullo, kids!” he said, “you’ve got down then? What a mess you’re in! Mansfield wants you, Heathcote.”

And the messenger departed, whistling a cheery tune, and dribbling Coote’s cap, after the straightest rules of the Association, across the Quad before him.

Heathcote’s face lengthened. This was the triumphal reception which was to greet him on his return to earth, the mention of which was to set Dick’s teeth gnashing!

He walked sulkily to Mansfield’s study, and knew his fate almost before he entered the room.

The Captain was stern and cutting. He wasted few words in inquiry, still fewer in expostulation.

“You’re one of the boys it’s no use talking to,” he said, almost scornfully. “You’ll be glad to hear I’m not going to talk to you. I’m going to thrash you.”

And that beautiful holiday morning George Heathcote was thrashed in a manner which hurt and startled him.

He fled from the Captain’s presence, sore both in body and mind. But, strange to say, his chief wrath was reserved not for the Captain, but for Dick. His mind, once poisoned, contrived to connect Dick with every calamity that came upon him. And it enraged him to think that at this moment, while he was smarting under the penalty of a straightforward honest breach of rules, inflicted by a senior whose chief quarrel with him was that he had had the pluck to stay away from levée, Dick was reaping the benefit of his toadyism and basking in the sunshine of the powers that were.

Pledge, as might be expected, did nothing to discourage this feeling. He was not a bit surprised. He had expected it, and he knew equally well it was but the beginning of a settled programme. Heathcote had better not keep up the contest. He had better knuckle under at once, as Dick had done, and enjoy a quiet time. Or, if he must break rules, let him remember that fellows could lie, and cheat, and sneak in Templeton, and never once be interfered with by the holy monitors; but when once they took to walking on the roofs—why, where could they expect to go to when they descended to such a depth of wickedness as that?

Heathcote spend a miserable afternoon, letting his misfortune and Pledge’s words rankle in his breast till he hated the very name of Dick and goodness.

In due time the three fishers returned that evening tired with their hard day’s work, and bronzed with the sun and breeze.

Dick looked serious and anxious as he followed his seniors into the Quadrangle, carrying the ulsters and the empty luncheon basket.

“Ah,” thought Heathcote, as he watched him from a retired nook, “he’s ashamed of himself. He well may be.”

The two seniors turned in at Westover’s door, leaving Dick to continue his walk alone.

Now was Heathcote’s time. Emerging from his corner he put his hands carelessly in his pockets and advanced to meet his former friend, whistling a jaunty tune.

He was half afraid Dick might not see him, but Dick had a quick eye for a friend, and hailed him half across the Quadrangle.

“Hullo, Georgie, old man!” said he, running up. “So awfully sorry you couldn’t come on our spree too. What’s the matter?”

What, indeed? Georgie, with an elaborate air of unconsciousness either of the voice or the presence of his comrade, walked on looking straight in front of him and whistling more jauntily than ever.

Dick stood for a moment aghast. He would fain have believed his chum had either not seen him or was joking. But a sinking at his heart told him otherwise, and a rush of anger told him that whatever the reason might be it was an unjust one.

So he checked his inclination to pursue his friend and demand an explanation there and then, and strolled on, whistling himself.

Heathcote pursued his dignified walk until he concluded he might safely stop whistling and venture to peep round.

When he did so he was dismayed to see Dick walking arm in arm across the Quadrangle with Coote, laughing at some narration which that pliable young gentleman was giving.

Poor Georgie! This was the hardest blow of all. If Dick had appeared crushed, if he had even looked hurt, or said one word of regret, Georgie’s heart would have been comforted and his wrath abated.

But to have his elaborate demonstration of rebuke ignored and quietly passed by in favour of Coote was too much! Georgie could not bear it. Pledge and all Pledge’s sophistry vanished in a moment with the loss of his friend.

If Dick would only give him another chance!

Chapter Twenty.How Coote comes out as a suspicious character.It would have been well for Heathcote if he had acted on the impulse of the moment, and made it up with Dick that same evening.Dick had come back from his boating expedition better disposed towards his lieutenant than he had been for a long time. He had come determined to befriend him, and rescue him from his enemies, and set him up upon his feet. He had come, reproaching himself with his former neglect, and convinced that Georgie’s fate was in his hands for good or evil; and that being so, he had determined to make a good job of his friend and turn him out a credit to Templeton.But in all this modest programme it had never occurred to him that Georgie would be anything but delighted to be taken in hand and made a good job of.Therefore, when in the fulness of his benevolence he had found his friend out immediately on his return, and been repulsed for his pains, Dick felt “gravelled.”All his nice little plan of campaign fell through. It was no use routing the Den, and putting Pledge and the “Sociables” to shame, when Georgie wouldn’t be made a good job of. And so Dick, with some dismay and considerable loss to his self-conceit, had to order a retreat and consider whether the war was worth going on with under the circumstances.He therefore did not meet Heathcote half-way, and curled himself up into bed, sorely perplexed, sorely crest-fallen, and sorely out of love with the world at large.No news spreads so fast as the news of a quarrel, and before school was well launched next morning the noise of a “row” between Dick and Heathcote ran through Templeton from end to end.The Den heard it, and hoped there would be a fight. The “Select Sociables” heard it, and voted it a good job. The Fourth and Fifth heard it, and said, “Young idiots!” The Sixth heard it, and shook their heads.Pledge, however, regarded the matter with complacency.“So it’s a row, is it?” said he, as hisprotégéwandered disconsolately into his study after morning school. “Pistols for two, coffee for four, and all that sort of thing, eh?”“He cuts me dead,” said Heathcote.“And you break your heart? Of course you do. I knew you couldn’t get on without him.”“I don’t break my heart at all!” said Heathcote, savagely.“No; you look as if you were going to hang yourself! How glad he’ll be to see dear Georgie sorrowing for his sins! If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go out next time you see him and lie down at his feet and ask him kindly to tread upon you.”“I’m not going to bother about him!” said Heathcote, miserably. “If he wants to make up, he’ll have to come and ask me himself.”“And, of course, you’ll fall on his neck, and weep, and say, ‘Oh! yes, I loved you always.’ Very pretty! Seriously, youngster—don’t make a donkey of yourself! As long as it pays him to cut you, he will cut you, and when it pays him better to be friends, he’ll want to be friends. Don’t make yourself too cheap. You’re better than a dirty halfpenny, to be played pitch and toss with.”These words sank deep in the boy’s disturbed mind, and drove away any lingering desire for an immediate reconciliation.Day after day the two old chums met and cut one another dead, and the spectacle of the “split” became a part of every-day life at Templeton.At the end of a week fellows almost forgot that David and Jonathan had ever been on speaking terms.Then an unlooked-for incident caused a diversion and upset the calculations of everybody.Coote had, of all interested parties, least relished the falling-out of his two old comrades. It had not only pained him as a friend, but, personally, it had caused him the greatest discomfort.For he found himself in the position of an animated buffer between the two. When Heathcote wanted to show off to Dick that he was not breaking his heart on his account, he got possession of Coote, and lavished untoward affection on that tender youth. And when Dick wanted to exhibit to Heathcote that he was not pining in solitude for want of an adherent, he attached Coote to his person and treated him like his own brother.And Coote, when Heathcote had him, was all for Heathcote, and eloquent on the abominable sins of piety and inconstancy. And when he was with Dick he was all for Dick, and discoursed no less eloquently on the wickedness of deceit and poorness of spirit. Sometimes his bad memory, and the quick transitions of allegiance through which he was called upon to pass, made him forget hisrôle, and condole with Dick on Heathcote’s piety, or with Heathcote on Dick’s poverty of spirit; and sometimes, when, in the company of the one, he happened to meet the other, he quite lost his head and made an ass of himself to both.This course of double dissimulation at the end of a week began to lose its charms, and Coote, with all his good nature and desire to make things pleasant for everybody, began to get tired of his two friends and long for a breath of freedom.So he took an early morning stroll along the cliffs one morning, finishing up with Mr Webster’s shop in the High Street.The gossiping Templeton stationer had suffered somewhat in temper since the reader saw him last, three months ago. The young gentry for whom he catered were not the “apples of his eyes” they had been. Not that he was at open war with them, but he had a grievance.He didn’t complain of the liberties they sometimes took with his shop—making it a general house of call and discussion forum. That was good for trade, and Mr Webster didn’t object to anything that was good for trade. Nor did the occasional horse-play, and even fighting, that took place on his premises now and then sour his milk of human kindness more than was natural. But when it came to abusing, not himself, but his goods, with the result that a good many of the latter, in the course of a term, came to be damaged, and some, he had reason to suppose, pilfered, then Mr Webster thought it time to make a stand and assert himself. He was, therefore, more brusque and less obsequious to the junior portion of Templeton this term than he had been last.So, when Coote, in the artlessness of his nature, feigned an earnest desire to know the price of an elegant ormolu inkpot, and modestly inquired it, the tradesman eyed him sharply and replied—“Ten shillings. Do you want to buy it?”Coote was one of those individuals who cannot say “no” to a shopman. Though nothing was further from his mind than putting his sadly reduced pocket-money into an ormolu inkpot, his tender heart could not bear to dash the stationer’s hopes too rudely. He said he couldn’t quite make up his mind, and would just look round, if he might.Mr Webster had got tired of the young Templeton gentlemen “looking round.” He knew what it meant, generally. The springs of all his inkpots got critically tested, pencils got twisted in and out till they refused to twist again, desks got ransacked, and their contents mixed in glorious and hopeless confusion, photographs got thumbed, books got dog-eared; and the sole profit to the honest merchant was the healthy exercise of putting everything tidy after his visitors had left, and the satisfaction of expressing his feelings in language strictly selected from the dictionary.He was, therefore, by no means elated at Coote’s proposal, and might have vetoed it, had not an important customer, in the shape of the Rev. Mr Westworth, the curate, entered at that moment, and diverted his attention. But even the reverend gentleman’s conversation was unable entirely to engross the honest bookseller, who kept a restless corner of one eye on the boy’s movements, while, with the rest of his features, he smiled deferentially at his customer.Coote, meanwhile, unaware of the suspicion with which he was being regarded, enjoyed a pleasant five minutes in turning Mr Webster’s stock of writing materials inside out. Being of a susceptible nature, he fell in love with a great many things in the course of his investigations, and the ormolu inkpot was several times eclipsed. What took his fancy most was a pretty chased silver penholder and pencil, which shut up into the compass of a date-stone, and yet, when open, was large and firm enough to write out the whole of Virgil at a sitting.Whatever else he looked at, he always came back to this treasure; and finally, when he became aware that Mr Westworth was about to depart, he had almost to push it from him, in order to bring himself to the pitch of leaving too.He had no desire further to lacerate Mr Webster’s feelings by declining to purchase anything, and therefore quitted the shop hurriedly, not noticing, as he did so, that the unlucky little pencil, which he had put down with such affectionate reluctance, had shown its regret by rolling quietly and sadly off the tray on to the counter, till it reached a gap half-way, into which it plunged suicidally, and became lost to the light of day.Mr Webster, who had seen as little of the catastrophe as the boy had, bowed his reverend guest out, and then turned to the disordered tray with a shrug of his shoulders.His review of its contents had not lasted half a minute when he started and uttered an exclamation. The pencil was gone—so was Coote!For once there was no shadow of a doubt in the honest stationer’s mind; it was as clear as daylight. No one else had been in the shop except the curate, who had never been near the tray. Coote had; he had touched and fingered all its contents; he had had this very pencil in his hand, he had quitted the shop abruptly, and started running as soon as he got outside.Mr Websterdidknow what two and two made, and it was quite a relief to him to feel absolutely and positively certain he had been robbed by a Templeton boy!His one difficulty was that he did not remember having seen Coote before, nor did he know his name. However, he would find him, if he had the whole school marched one by one in front of him, and, when he had found him, he would make an example of him.Blissfully unconscious of the cloud on the horizon, Coote had arrived at the school just in time for chapel. On his way out Heathcote came up and took his arm.“Well, old fellow,” said that youth in a loud voice, which made it perfectly clear to Coote that Dick must be somewhere within hearing, “come and have another jolly two-hander after school, won’t you? You and I ought to be able to lick Raggles and Culver into fits now, oughtn’t we?”“It’s a wonder to me,” said Dick, walking off in another direction with Aspinall, “how Raggles and Culver play tennis at all; any fool could lick them left-handed.”Aspinall knew better than to dispute the assertion, and submitted to be taken down to the courts after morning school by Dick, where, in full view of Heathcote and Coote, the two played an exciting match, in which, of course, Dick came off victorious, for the simple reason that Aspinall had not the moral courage to beat him.Towards the end of the game Cresswell and Cartwright walked up with their rackets. Finding all the courts occupied, Cresswell said to Dick—“You two may as well make up a four with Heathcote and Coote; we want one of the courts.”Dick was delighted to give up the court, but he was far too fagged to play any more. So was Aspinall, wasn’t he? Besides, they neither of them cared about four-handers.Heathcote and Coote, for their part, were far too absorbed in their game to heed Cresswell’s suggestion. They were playing best out of fifteen sets, Georgie announced, and had just finished the third. Which being known, the spectators fell away from that part of the field rapidly.The two o’clock bell sounded before the fifth set was over, rather to Coote’s relief, who had been getting just tennis enough during the last week.The two champions were walking back lovingly to the school, when, as they approached the Quad gate, Heathcote said—“Hallo! there’s Webster! What’s he hanging about for there?”“Perhaps you owe him a bill,” said Coote.“Not I. I’ve jacked Webster up; he’s a surly beast.”“I was in his shop this morning,” said Coote. “There was such a stunning little shut-up penholder, about so big. I can’t fancy how they make them shut up so small.”“Did you buy it?”“No; I couldn’t afford it. Hallo! what does he want? He’s beckoning.”“Jolly cheek of him!” said Heathcote. “If he wants you, let him come. I wouldn’t go to him if I were you. Call out and ask him what he wants.”Whereupon Coote called out:—“What do you want?”“I want you,” said the bookseller, approaching.“Tell him you’re busy, and he’d better come again.”“I’m busy, I say,” cried Coote; “come again.”“No, thank you,” said Mr Webster, stepping before the boys. “Ah! good day to you, Mr Heathcote; quite a stranger, sir. If you’ll allow me, I would like a word with your friend?”“You know you’ll get in a row, Webster, if you’re seen up here,” said Heathcote. “All the shop fellows have to stop at the gate.”Having delivered which piece of friendly caution, Georgie walked on, leaving Coote and the booksellertête-à-tête.“What do you want?” asked Coote.“Come, none of your tricks with me, young fellow! I want that pencil-case, there!”“Pencil-case! What pencil-case? I’ve not got any pencil-case!” said Coote.Mr Webster had expected this; he would have been a trifle disappointed had the criminal pleaded guilty at once.“Do you suppose I didn’t see you with it in your hand in my shop, sir, this morning?” said he.“But I didn’t take it—I haven’t got it—I wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Coote, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.“You’d like me to suppose that some one else took it; wouldn’t you?” said Mr Webster, feeling so sure of his ground as quite to enjoy himself.“If you’ve lost it, somebody else did. I didn’t,” said the boy.“Now, look here, young gentleman, that sort of thing may go down at home or here in school, but it’s no use trying it on with me. If you don’t choose to give me that pencil this moment, we’ll see what a policeman can do.”At this threat Coote turned pale. “Really, I never took it! You may feel in my pockets. Oh,pleasedon’t bring a policeman, Mr Webster!”“What’s your name?” demanded Mr Webster, ostentatiously producing a pencil and paper.“Coote—Arthur Dennis Coote,” said the trembling boy.“Address?”“One, Richmond Villas, Richmond Road, G—.”“Very well, Mr Coote,” said the stationer, folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket-book; “unless you call on me before this time to-morrow with the pencil, I’ll have you locked up. Good morning.”Coote, with his heart in his shoes, watched the retreating figure till it was lost to view, and then turned, bewildered and scared, to the school.Heathcote was waiting for him at the door.“Well, what did the cad want?—what’s the row, I say?” he demanded, catching sight of the dazed face of his chum.“Oh, Georgie, a most frightful row!” gasped Coote. “He says I’ve stolen a pencil!”“What, the one you were talking about?”“Yes, the very one.”“I suppose you haven’t, really?” asked Heathcote, with no false delicacy.“No, really I haven’t—that is, if I have I— Look here; do hunt my pockets, will you, old man?”Georgie obeyed, and every pocket of the unhappy Coote was successively explored, without bringing to light the missing pencil.“There,” said the suspect, with a sigh of relief when the operation was over, “I was positive I hadn’t got it. He says I was the only one in the shop, and that he missed it as soon as I had gone; but really and truly I didn’t take it; I never did such a thing in my life.”“Of course you didn’t. He’s a cad and has got a spite against us, that’s what it is. What’s he going to do?”“He says unless I take it to him by this time to-morrow, he’ll send a policeman to take me up,” and the unhappy youth’s voice choked with the words.Heathcote gave a long, dismal whistle.“Whatever will you do?” he asked, in tones of deep concern.“How can I take it back?” asked Coote, “if I hadn’t got it. I wish to goodness I had got it!”“You’ll have to square him, somehow,” said Georgie. “You’re positive it hasn’t dropped into your shoes, or anywhere, by accident.”The bare suggestion sent Coote up to the dormitory, where he undressed, and shook out each article of his toilet, in the hope of discovering the lost treasure.Alas! high or low, there was nosignof it.He spent a terrible afternoon, wondering where he should be that time to-morrow, or whether possibly Mr Webster would alter his mind, and send a policeman up forthwith.He was in no humour for tennis, or a row in the Den, or a “Sociable” concert after school, and avoided them all. And to add to his troubles, Heathcote was detained two hours for some offence; so that he was deprived for an equal length of time of the consolation of that hero’s sympathy and advice.He spent the interval dismally in a retired corner of the field, where he hoped to be able to collect his shattered wits in peace. But it was no good. He could see no way through it.“Oh!” thought he, for the hundredth time, “how I wish I had really taken it!”He had just arrived at this conclusion, when a light step approaching, caused him to look up, and see Dick.“Hullo, old man,” said the latter, “how jolly blue you look. What’s the row?”Coote repeated his dismal story, and marked the dismay which crept over his leader’s face as he told it.“By Jove, old man,” said Dick, “it’s a mess. How ever are you to get out?”“That’s just what I don’t know,” groaned Coote. “If I only had the pencil it would be all right. But, really and truly, Dick, I never took it; did I?”“All serene,” said Dick. “But, I say, if you can’t give him the pencil back, perhaps you can pay him for it.”“It cost thirty shillings; and I’ve only got seven-and-six.”“I’ve got ten shillings,” said Dick. “That’s seventeen-and-six. Perhaps if we gave him that, he’d wait for the rest.”“You’re an awful brick,” said poor Coote, gratefully. “If it hadn’t been for you and Georgie, I don’t know what I should have done.”Dick started and coloured.“Is he in it? Does he know about it?” he asked.“Yes, Dick,” said Coote, feeling rather in a hobble. “I—thought, you know, I’d better tell him.”“What did he say?”“Oh, not much; that is, he said he’d help me if he could. But—I don’t see how he can.”“He might be able to lend you enough to make up the price,” said Dick, after a pause.“I know he would, he’s such a brick—that is,” added the wretched Coote, correcting himself, “you’re both such bricks.”Dick made no answer, but walked off, musing to himself.“Both bricks!” And yet poor Coote had to blush when he mentioned the name of one brick to the other! Dick was getting tired of this.He retired to the school, to think over what could be done, and was about to ascend the stairs, when the familiar form of Georgie appeared coming to meet him.“Georgie, Coote’s in an awful mess; I vote we back him up.”“So do I, rather, old man.”And they went off arm-in-arm to find him.Check to you, Pledge!

It would have been well for Heathcote if he had acted on the impulse of the moment, and made it up with Dick that same evening.

Dick had come back from his boating expedition better disposed towards his lieutenant than he had been for a long time. He had come determined to befriend him, and rescue him from his enemies, and set him up upon his feet. He had come, reproaching himself with his former neglect, and convinced that Georgie’s fate was in his hands for good or evil; and that being so, he had determined to make a good job of his friend and turn him out a credit to Templeton.

But in all this modest programme it had never occurred to him that Georgie would be anything but delighted to be taken in hand and made a good job of.

Therefore, when in the fulness of his benevolence he had found his friend out immediately on his return, and been repulsed for his pains, Dick felt “gravelled.”

All his nice little plan of campaign fell through. It was no use routing the Den, and putting Pledge and the “Sociables” to shame, when Georgie wouldn’t be made a good job of. And so Dick, with some dismay and considerable loss to his self-conceit, had to order a retreat and consider whether the war was worth going on with under the circumstances.

He therefore did not meet Heathcote half-way, and curled himself up into bed, sorely perplexed, sorely crest-fallen, and sorely out of love with the world at large.

No news spreads so fast as the news of a quarrel, and before school was well launched next morning the noise of a “row” between Dick and Heathcote ran through Templeton from end to end.

The Den heard it, and hoped there would be a fight. The “Select Sociables” heard it, and voted it a good job. The Fourth and Fifth heard it, and said, “Young idiots!” The Sixth heard it, and shook their heads.

Pledge, however, regarded the matter with complacency.

“So it’s a row, is it?” said he, as hisprotégéwandered disconsolately into his study after morning school. “Pistols for two, coffee for four, and all that sort of thing, eh?”

“He cuts me dead,” said Heathcote.

“And you break your heart? Of course you do. I knew you couldn’t get on without him.”

“I don’t break my heart at all!” said Heathcote, savagely.

“No; you look as if you were going to hang yourself! How glad he’ll be to see dear Georgie sorrowing for his sins! If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go out next time you see him and lie down at his feet and ask him kindly to tread upon you.”

“I’m not going to bother about him!” said Heathcote, miserably. “If he wants to make up, he’ll have to come and ask me himself.”

“And, of course, you’ll fall on his neck, and weep, and say, ‘Oh! yes, I loved you always.’ Very pretty! Seriously, youngster—don’t make a donkey of yourself! As long as it pays him to cut you, he will cut you, and when it pays him better to be friends, he’ll want to be friends. Don’t make yourself too cheap. You’re better than a dirty halfpenny, to be played pitch and toss with.”

These words sank deep in the boy’s disturbed mind, and drove away any lingering desire for an immediate reconciliation.

Day after day the two old chums met and cut one another dead, and the spectacle of the “split” became a part of every-day life at Templeton.

At the end of a week fellows almost forgot that David and Jonathan had ever been on speaking terms.

Then an unlooked-for incident caused a diversion and upset the calculations of everybody.

Coote had, of all interested parties, least relished the falling-out of his two old comrades. It had not only pained him as a friend, but, personally, it had caused him the greatest discomfort.

For he found himself in the position of an animated buffer between the two. When Heathcote wanted to show off to Dick that he was not breaking his heart on his account, he got possession of Coote, and lavished untoward affection on that tender youth. And when Dick wanted to exhibit to Heathcote that he was not pining in solitude for want of an adherent, he attached Coote to his person and treated him like his own brother.

And Coote, when Heathcote had him, was all for Heathcote, and eloquent on the abominable sins of piety and inconstancy. And when he was with Dick he was all for Dick, and discoursed no less eloquently on the wickedness of deceit and poorness of spirit. Sometimes his bad memory, and the quick transitions of allegiance through which he was called upon to pass, made him forget hisrôle, and condole with Dick on Heathcote’s piety, or with Heathcote on Dick’s poverty of spirit; and sometimes, when, in the company of the one, he happened to meet the other, he quite lost his head and made an ass of himself to both.

This course of double dissimulation at the end of a week began to lose its charms, and Coote, with all his good nature and desire to make things pleasant for everybody, began to get tired of his two friends and long for a breath of freedom.

So he took an early morning stroll along the cliffs one morning, finishing up with Mr Webster’s shop in the High Street.

The gossiping Templeton stationer had suffered somewhat in temper since the reader saw him last, three months ago. The young gentry for whom he catered were not the “apples of his eyes” they had been. Not that he was at open war with them, but he had a grievance.

He didn’t complain of the liberties they sometimes took with his shop—making it a general house of call and discussion forum. That was good for trade, and Mr Webster didn’t object to anything that was good for trade. Nor did the occasional horse-play, and even fighting, that took place on his premises now and then sour his milk of human kindness more than was natural. But when it came to abusing, not himself, but his goods, with the result that a good many of the latter, in the course of a term, came to be damaged, and some, he had reason to suppose, pilfered, then Mr Webster thought it time to make a stand and assert himself. He was, therefore, more brusque and less obsequious to the junior portion of Templeton this term than he had been last.

So, when Coote, in the artlessness of his nature, feigned an earnest desire to know the price of an elegant ormolu inkpot, and modestly inquired it, the tradesman eyed him sharply and replied—

“Ten shillings. Do you want to buy it?”

Coote was one of those individuals who cannot say “no” to a shopman. Though nothing was further from his mind than putting his sadly reduced pocket-money into an ormolu inkpot, his tender heart could not bear to dash the stationer’s hopes too rudely. He said he couldn’t quite make up his mind, and would just look round, if he might.

Mr Webster had got tired of the young Templeton gentlemen “looking round.” He knew what it meant, generally. The springs of all his inkpots got critically tested, pencils got twisted in and out till they refused to twist again, desks got ransacked, and their contents mixed in glorious and hopeless confusion, photographs got thumbed, books got dog-eared; and the sole profit to the honest merchant was the healthy exercise of putting everything tidy after his visitors had left, and the satisfaction of expressing his feelings in language strictly selected from the dictionary.

He was, therefore, by no means elated at Coote’s proposal, and might have vetoed it, had not an important customer, in the shape of the Rev. Mr Westworth, the curate, entered at that moment, and diverted his attention. But even the reverend gentleman’s conversation was unable entirely to engross the honest bookseller, who kept a restless corner of one eye on the boy’s movements, while, with the rest of his features, he smiled deferentially at his customer.

Coote, meanwhile, unaware of the suspicion with which he was being regarded, enjoyed a pleasant five minutes in turning Mr Webster’s stock of writing materials inside out. Being of a susceptible nature, he fell in love with a great many things in the course of his investigations, and the ormolu inkpot was several times eclipsed. What took his fancy most was a pretty chased silver penholder and pencil, which shut up into the compass of a date-stone, and yet, when open, was large and firm enough to write out the whole of Virgil at a sitting.

Whatever else he looked at, he always came back to this treasure; and finally, when he became aware that Mr Westworth was about to depart, he had almost to push it from him, in order to bring himself to the pitch of leaving too.

He had no desire further to lacerate Mr Webster’s feelings by declining to purchase anything, and therefore quitted the shop hurriedly, not noticing, as he did so, that the unlucky little pencil, which he had put down with such affectionate reluctance, had shown its regret by rolling quietly and sadly off the tray on to the counter, till it reached a gap half-way, into which it plunged suicidally, and became lost to the light of day.

Mr Webster, who had seen as little of the catastrophe as the boy had, bowed his reverend guest out, and then turned to the disordered tray with a shrug of his shoulders.

His review of its contents had not lasted half a minute when he started and uttered an exclamation. The pencil was gone—so was Coote!

For once there was no shadow of a doubt in the honest stationer’s mind; it was as clear as daylight. No one else had been in the shop except the curate, who had never been near the tray. Coote had; he had touched and fingered all its contents; he had had this very pencil in his hand, he had quitted the shop abruptly, and started running as soon as he got outside.

Mr Websterdidknow what two and two made, and it was quite a relief to him to feel absolutely and positively certain he had been robbed by a Templeton boy!

His one difficulty was that he did not remember having seen Coote before, nor did he know his name. However, he would find him, if he had the whole school marched one by one in front of him, and, when he had found him, he would make an example of him.

Blissfully unconscious of the cloud on the horizon, Coote had arrived at the school just in time for chapel. On his way out Heathcote came up and took his arm.

“Well, old fellow,” said that youth in a loud voice, which made it perfectly clear to Coote that Dick must be somewhere within hearing, “come and have another jolly two-hander after school, won’t you? You and I ought to be able to lick Raggles and Culver into fits now, oughtn’t we?”

“It’s a wonder to me,” said Dick, walking off in another direction with Aspinall, “how Raggles and Culver play tennis at all; any fool could lick them left-handed.”

Aspinall knew better than to dispute the assertion, and submitted to be taken down to the courts after morning school by Dick, where, in full view of Heathcote and Coote, the two played an exciting match, in which, of course, Dick came off victorious, for the simple reason that Aspinall had not the moral courage to beat him.

Towards the end of the game Cresswell and Cartwright walked up with their rackets. Finding all the courts occupied, Cresswell said to Dick—

“You two may as well make up a four with Heathcote and Coote; we want one of the courts.”

Dick was delighted to give up the court, but he was far too fagged to play any more. So was Aspinall, wasn’t he? Besides, they neither of them cared about four-handers.

Heathcote and Coote, for their part, were far too absorbed in their game to heed Cresswell’s suggestion. They were playing best out of fifteen sets, Georgie announced, and had just finished the third. Which being known, the spectators fell away from that part of the field rapidly.

The two o’clock bell sounded before the fifth set was over, rather to Coote’s relief, who had been getting just tennis enough during the last week.

The two champions were walking back lovingly to the school, when, as they approached the Quad gate, Heathcote said—

“Hallo! there’s Webster! What’s he hanging about for there?”

“Perhaps you owe him a bill,” said Coote.

“Not I. I’ve jacked Webster up; he’s a surly beast.”

“I was in his shop this morning,” said Coote. “There was such a stunning little shut-up penholder, about so big. I can’t fancy how they make them shut up so small.”

“Did you buy it?”

“No; I couldn’t afford it. Hallo! what does he want? He’s beckoning.”

“Jolly cheek of him!” said Heathcote. “If he wants you, let him come. I wouldn’t go to him if I were you. Call out and ask him what he wants.”

Whereupon Coote called out:—

“What do you want?”

“I want you,” said the bookseller, approaching.

“Tell him you’re busy, and he’d better come again.”

“I’m busy, I say,” cried Coote; “come again.”

“No, thank you,” said Mr Webster, stepping before the boys. “Ah! good day to you, Mr Heathcote; quite a stranger, sir. If you’ll allow me, I would like a word with your friend?”

“You know you’ll get in a row, Webster, if you’re seen up here,” said Heathcote. “All the shop fellows have to stop at the gate.”

Having delivered which piece of friendly caution, Georgie walked on, leaving Coote and the booksellertête-à-tête.

“What do you want?” asked Coote.

“Come, none of your tricks with me, young fellow! I want that pencil-case, there!”

“Pencil-case! What pencil-case? I’ve not got any pencil-case!” said Coote.

Mr Webster had expected this; he would have been a trifle disappointed had the criminal pleaded guilty at once.

“Do you suppose I didn’t see you with it in your hand in my shop, sir, this morning?” said he.

“But I didn’t take it—I haven’t got it—I wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Coote, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.

“You’d like me to suppose that some one else took it; wouldn’t you?” said Mr Webster, feeling so sure of his ground as quite to enjoy himself.

“If you’ve lost it, somebody else did. I didn’t,” said the boy.

“Now, look here, young gentleman, that sort of thing may go down at home or here in school, but it’s no use trying it on with me. If you don’t choose to give me that pencil this moment, we’ll see what a policeman can do.”

At this threat Coote turned pale. “Really, I never took it! You may feel in my pockets. Oh,pleasedon’t bring a policeman, Mr Webster!”

“What’s your name?” demanded Mr Webster, ostentatiously producing a pencil and paper.

“Coote—Arthur Dennis Coote,” said the trembling boy.

“Address?”

“One, Richmond Villas, Richmond Road, G—.”

“Very well, Mr Coote,” said the stationer, folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket-book; “unless you call on me before this time to-morrow with the pencil, I’ll have you locked up. Good morning.”

Coote, with his heart in his shoes, watched the retreating figure till it was lost to view, and then turned, bewildered and scared, to the school.

Heathcote was waiting for him at the door.

“Well, what did the cad want?—what’s the row, I say?” he demanded, catching sight of the dazed face of his chum.

“Oh, Georgie, a most frightful row!” gasped Coote. “He says I’ve stolen a pencil!”

“What, the one you were talking about?”

“Yes, the very one.”

“I suppose you haven’t, really?” asked Heathcote, with no false delicacy.

“No, really I haven’t—that is, if I have I— Look here; do hunt my pockets, will you, old man?”

Georgie obeyed, and every pocket of the unhappy Coote was successively explored, without bringing to light the missing pencil.

“There,” said the suspect, with a sigh of relief when the operation was over, “I was positive I hadn’t got it. He says I was the only one in the shop, and that he missed it as soon as I had gone; but really and truly I didn’t take it; I never did such a thing in my life.”

“Of course you didn’t. He’s a cad and has got a spite against us, that’s what it is. What’s he going to do?”

“He says unless I take it to him by this time to-morrow, he’ll send a policeman to take me up,” and the unhappy youth’s voice choked with the words.

Heathcote gave a long, dismal whistle.

“Whatever will you do?” he asked, in tones of deep concern.

“How can I take it back?” asked Coote, “if I hadn’t got it. I wish to goodness I had got it!”

“You’ll have to square him, somehow,” said Georgie. “You’re positive it hasn’t dropped into your shoes, or anywhere, by accident.”

The bare suggestion sent Coote up to the dormitory, where he undressed, and shook out each article of his toilet, in the hope of discovering the lost treasure.

Alas! high or low, there was nosignof it.

He spent a terrible afternoon, wondering where he should be that time to-morrow, or whether possibly Mr Webster would alter his mind, and send a policeman up forthwith.

He was in no humour for tennis, or a row in the Den, or a “Sociable” concert after school, and avoided them all. And to add to his troubles, Heathcote was detained two hours for some offence; so that he was deprived for an equal length of time of the consolation of that hero’s sympathy and advice.

He spent the interval dismally in a retired corner of the field, where he hoped to be able to collect his shattered wits in peace. But it was no good. He could see no way through it.

“Oh!” thought he, for the hundredth time, “how I wish I had really taken it!”

He had just arrived at this conclusion, when a light step approaching, caused him to look up, and see Dick.

“Hullo, old man,” said the latter, “how jolly blue you look. What’s the row?”

Coote repeated his dismal story, and marked the dismay which crept over his leader’s face as he told it.

“By Jove, old man,” said Dick, “it’s a mess. How ever are you to get out?”

“That’s just what I don’t know,” groaned Coote. “If I only had the pencil it would be all right. But, really and truly, Dick, I never took it; did I?”

“All serene,” said Dick. “But, I say, if you can’t give him the pencil back, perhaps you can pay him for it.”

“It cost thirty shillings; and I’ve only got seven-and-six.”

“I’ve got ten shillings,” said Dick. “That’s seventeen-and-six. Perhaps if we gave him that, he’d wait for the rest.”

“You’re an awful brick,” said poor Coote, gratefully. “If it hadn’t been for you and Georgie, I don’t know what I should have done.”

Dick started and coloured.

“Is he in it? Does he know about it?” he asked.

“Yes, Dick,” said Coote, feeling rather in a hobble. “I—thought, you know, I’d better tell him.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, not much; that is, he said he’d help me if he could. But—I don’t see how he can.”

“He might be able to lend you enough to make up the price,” said Dick, after a pause.

“I know he would, he’s such a brick—that is,” added the wretched Coote, correcting himself, “you’re both such bricks.”

Dick made no answer, but walked off, musing to himself.

“Both bricks!” And yet poor Coote had to blush when he mentioned the name of one brick to the other! Dick was getting tired of this.

He retired to the school, to think over what could be done, and was about to ascend the stairs, when the familiar form of Georgie appeared coming to meet him.

“Georgie, Coote’s in an awful mess; I vote we back him up.”

“So do I, rather, old man.”

And they went off arm-in-arm to find him.

Check to you, Pledge!

Chapter Twenty One.How our heroes fall out of the frying-pan into the fire.Templeton opened its eyes as it saw David and Jonathan walking together across the fields that afternoon. The Den, with native quickness of perception, instantly snuffed a battle in the air, and dogged the heels of the champions with partisan shouts and cheers.“Dick will finish him in a round and a half,” shouted Raggles.“Don’t you be too cock-sure,” cried Gosse, “Georgie’s got a neat ‘square-fender’ on him, and I rather fancy him best myself.”Gosse had not the ghost of a notion what a “square-fender” was; nor had anyone else. But the word carried weight, and there was a run on Georgie accordingly.Raggles, however, was not to be snuffed out too easily.“Bah!” shouted he, “what’s the use of a ‘square-fender,’ when Dick can get down his ‘postman’s knock’ over the top, and blink his man into fits.”After that Georgie was nowhere. A fellow who can “blink” his man with a “postman’s knock,” no matter what it means, is worth half-a-dozen “square-fenders.” And so Dick became a favourite, and the event was considered as good as settled.Which was just as well; for our heroes, as they walked in search of Coote, could not be so engrossed either in their newly-healed alliance, or in the affliction of their friend, as to be unaware of the commotion at their heels. And it was not till Dick had ordered the foremost of the procession to “hook it,” enforcing his precept by one or two impartially-distributed samples of his “postman’s knock,” that it dawned on the Den there was to be no fight after all.Whereupon they yapped off in disgust, with their noses in the air, in search of some better sport.Left to themselves, our heroes, with a strange mixture of joy and anxiety in their hearts, broke into a trot, and presently sighted Coote.That unhappy youth, little dreaming of the revolution which his scrape was destined to effect in Templeton, was still sitting where Dick had left him, ruefully meditating on his near prospect of incarceration. The vision of Dick and Heathcote advancing upon him by no means tended to allay the tumult of his feelings.“I’m in for it now,” groaned he to himself. “They’re both going to pitch into me for telling the other. What a mule I was ever to come to Templeton.”But Dick’s first words dispelled these gloomy forebodings effectually.“Keep your pecker up, old man, Georgie and I are both going to back you up. We’ll pull you through somehow.”“I’ve got ten bob,” said Georgie. “That’s twenty-seven-and-six. Perhaps he’ll let you off the other half-crown.”Considering he had not abstracted the pencil at all, Coote inwardly thought Mr Webster might forego this small balance, and be no loser. And he half-hinted as much.“It’s an awful shame,” said he, “not to believe my word. I really don’t see why we ought to stump up at all.”But this proposal by no means suited his ardent backers-up, who looked upon the whole affair as providential, and by no means to be burked.“Bound to do it,” said Dick decisively. “Things look ugly against you, you know, and it would be a terrible business if you got locked up. It would cost less to square Webster then to bail you out; wouldn’t it, Georgie?”“Rather!” said Georgie. “Besides, it looks awkward if it gets out that you’ve been to prison.—Our ‘Firm’ oughtn’t to get mixed up in that sort of mess.”After this, Coote resigned all pretensions to the further direction of his own defence, and left his case unreservedly in the hands of his two honest partners.They decided that very evening, with or without leave, to go down with the twenty-seven-and-six to Mr Webster.Dick was the only one of the three who got leave; but his two friends considered the crisis one of such urgency that even without leave they should brave all consequences and accompany him.Mr Webster was in the act of putting up his shutters when the small careworn procession halted before his door, and requested the favour of an interview.The bookseller was in a good temper. He had rather enjoyed the day’s adventure, and reckoned that the moral effect of his action would be good. Besides, the looks of the culprit and his two friends fully justified his suspicions. They had doubtless come to restore the pencil, and plead for mercy. They should see that mercy was not kept in stock in his shop, and would want some little trouble before it was to be procured.So he bade his visitors step inside, and state their business.“We’ve come about the pencil, you know,” said Dick, adopting a conciliatory tone to begin with. “It’s really a mistake, Webster. Coote never took it.”“No. We’ve known Coote for years, and never knew him do such a thing,” said Heathcote.“And they’ve turned out every one of my pockets,” said Coote, “and there was no sign of it.”Mr Webster smiled serenely.“Very pretty, young gentlemen; very pretty. When you have done joking, perhaps, you’ll give me what belongs to me.”“Hang it!” cried Dick, forgetting his suavity. “It’s no joke, Webster. I tell you, Coote never took the thing.”“You were here in the shop, of course, and saw him?” said the tradesman.“No, I wasn’t,” said Dick; “you know that as well as I do.”“Coote,” said Heathcote, feeling it his turn to back up—“Coote’s a gentleman; not a thief.”“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr Webster. “He’s sure he’s not both?”“I’m positive,” said Coote.“And is that all you’ve come to say?” said the bookseller.“No,” said Dick. “It’s an awful shame if you can’t believe us. But if you won’t—well, we’d sooner pay you for the pencil and have done with it.”Mr Webster was charmed. He had always imagined himself a sharp man and he was sure of it now. For a minute or two the boys’ joint protestations of innocence had staggered his belief in Coote’s guilt; but this ingenuous offer convinced him he had been right after all.“Oh, you didn’t steal it, but you’re going to pay for it, are you? Very pretty! What do you think it was worth?”“Thirty shillings,” said Dick, “that was the price marked on it.”“And yet you never saw it.”“Of course I didn’t,” retorted Dick, beginning to feel hot. “I’ve told you so twice—Coote saw it.”“Yes,” said Coote, “there was a tiny label on it.”“We can’t make up quite thirty shillings,” said Heathcote; “but we’ve got twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. I suppose you’ll make that do?”“Doyou suppose I’ll make it do?” said Mr Webster, beginning to feel hot, too. “You think you can come to my shop, and pilfer my things like so many young pickpockets; and then you have the impudence to come and offer me part of the price to say nothing about it. No, thank you. That’s not my way of doing business.”“There’s nothing else we can do,” said Dick.“Oh, yes, there is. You can march off to the lockup—all three of you if you like; but one of you, anyhow. And so you will, as sure as I stand here.”“Oh, Mr Webster, I say, please don’t say that. He never took it, really he didn’t.”“Come, that’ll do. Twelve o’clock to-morrow, unless I get the pencil, you’ll get a call from the police. Off you go. I’ve had enough of you.”And the bookseller, whose temper had gradually been evaporating during the visit, bustled our heroes out of the shop, and slammed the door behind them.“It’s all up, old man,” said Heathcote, lugubriously. “I did think the cad would shut up for twenty-seven shillings and sixpence.”“I’m afraid he wants me more than the money,” said Coote. “WhatevercanI do?”“You can’t prove you didn’t take it; that’s the worst,” said Dick.“He can’t prove I did. He only thinks I did. How I wish Ihadthat stupid pencil.”With which original conclusion they returned to Templeton. Dick, under cover of hisexeatsmarched ostentatiously in. The other two, in a far more modest and shy manner, entered by their hands and knees, on receipt of a signal from their leader that the coast was clear.Heathcote deemed it prudent not to exhibit himself in the Den, and therefore retired to Pledge’s study as the place least likely to be dangerous.Pledge was there working.“Hullo, youngster,” said he, “what’s been your little game this evening? Been to a prayer meeting?”“No,” said Heathcote laconically.It was no part of Pledge’s manner to appear inquisitive. He saw there was a mystery, and knew better than to appear in the slightest degree anxious to solve it.He had as yet heard nothing of the newly-formed alliance in low life, and attributed Heathcote’s uncommunicativeness either to shame for some discreditable proceeding, or else to passing ill-humour. In either case he reckoned on knowing all about it before long.Heathcote was very uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him till just now that Pledge would resent the return of his allegiance to Dick as an act of insubordination. Not that that would keep him from Dick; but Heathcote, who had hitherto admired his old patron as a friend, by no means relished the idea of having him an enemy. He therefore felt that the best thing he could do was to hold his tongue, and if, after all, a row was to come, well—it would have to come.He sat down to do his own preparation, and for half an hour neither student broke the silence.Then Pledge, who had never known hisprotégésilent for so long together before, felt there must be something the matter which he ought to be aware of.So he leaned back in his chair and stretched himself.“You’re a nice boy, George!” said he, laughing; “you’ve been sitting half an hour with your pen in your hand and haven’t written a word.”Georgie coloured up.“It’s a stiff bit of prose,” said he.“So it seems. Suppose I do it for you?”“No, thanks, Pledge,” said the boy, who, without having any particular horror of having his lessons done for him, did not like just now, when he was conscious of having revolted against his senior, to accept favours from him.“No? It’s true, then, Georgie is joining the elect and going to take holy orders?”“No, I’m not,” said Georgie.“Then Georgie is trying to be funny and not succeeding,” said the monitor, drily, returning to his own books.Another silent quarter of an hour passed, and then the first bed bell rang.“Good-night,” said Heathcote, gathering together his books.“Good-night, dear boy!” said Pledge, with the red spots coming out on his cheeks; “come down with me to the ‘Tub’ in the morning.”“I’m going down with another fellow,” said Georgie, feeling his heart bumping in his chest.“Oh!” said the monitor, indifferently; “with averydear friend?—the saintly Dick, for instance?”“Yes,” said Heathcote, and left the room.Pledge sat motionless, watching the closed door for a full minute, and, as he did so, an ugly look crept over his face, which it was well for Heathcote he did not see. Then he turned mechanically to his books, and buried himself in them for the rest of the evening.The “Tub” next morning was crowded as usual, and it needed very little penetration on Pledge’s part to see that the triple alliance between our three heroes was fast and serious.They undressed on the same rock, they dived side by side from the spring-board, they came above water at the same moment, they challenged collectively any other three of the Den to meet them in mortal combat in mid-Tub, and they ended up their performance by swimming solemnly in from the open arm-in-arm, Coote, of course, being in the middle.All this Pledge observed, and marked also their anxious looks and hurried consultations as they dressed. He guessed that there must be some matter of common interest which was just then acting as the pivot on which the alliance turned, and his taste for scientific research determined him, if possible, to discover it.So when, after “Tub,” the three friends marched arm-in-arm down town, Pledge casually strolled the same way at a respectful distance.It was clear the “Firm” was bound on a momentous and unpleasant errand.Coote every other minute was convulsed by the brotherly claps which the backers-up on either side bestowed upon him; and the long faces of all three, as now and then they stopped and scrutinised the shop-window of some silversmith or pawnbroker, betokened anything but content or high spirits.At length Pledge saw them enter very dejectedly at Mr Webster’s door, where, not being anxious to disturb them, he left them and took a short turn down the shady side of High Street, within view of the stationer’s shop.Their business was not protracted, for in about three minutes he saw them emerge, with faces longer than ever, and turn their steps hurriedly and dismally towards Templeton.When they were out of sight, Pledge crossed the road and casually turned in at Mr Webster’s door.“Well, Webster, anything new?”“No, sir; nothing in your line, I’m afraid,” said the shopman.“By the way,” said Pledge, carelessly, “was that my fag I saw coming out here just now?”“Mr Heathcote?” said Webster, frowning. “Yes, that was he, sir, and two friends of his. I’m afraid he’s getting into bad company, Mr Pledge.”“Are you? What makes you think that?”“It’s an unpleasant matter altogether,” said Mr Webster, “and likely to be more so. The fact is, sir, I’ve been robbed.”And he proceeded to give Pledge an account of the loss of the pencil-case, and of the efforts of the boys to get the matter hushed up.Pledge heard it with an amused smile.“They’ve just been here to try and buy me off,” said the indignant shopkeeper, “but I’m going to make an example of them. I’m sorry to do it, Mr Pledge, but it’s only fair to myself, isn’t it, sir?”“I don’t know,” said Pledge; “I don’t see that it will do you much good. You’d better leave it to me.”“Leave it to you?”“Well, I expect I can get back your pencil as easily as you can, if they’ve got it. You’re sure they have got it?”“I’m certain Master Coote took it; certain as I stand here. What they’ve done with it among them I can’t say.”“Well, don’t be in a hurry. I’m a monitor, you know, and it’s as much to my interest to follow the thing up as to yours. If you’ll take my advice, you won’t be in a hurry to prosecute. Wait a week.”“Very good, sir,” said the bookseller, to whom it was really a relief to postpone final action for a day or two, at least. If Pledge, meanwhile, should succeed in bringing the culprit to book, it would still rest with Mr Webster to decide whether to make an example of him or not Pledge departed, and the bookseller turned to dust his shop out for the day. In this occupation he had not proceeded far, when his brush, penetrating into a crack in his counter, caused something within to rattle. Being a tidy man, and not favouring dust or dirt of any sort, even out of sight, he proceeded to probe the hole in order to clear away the obstruction, when, to his amazement and consternation, he discovered, snugly lying in the hollow, the lost pencil-case!Mr Webster’s first thought was, “Artful young rogues! They’ve brought it back, and hidden it here to escape punishment!”And yet, when he came to think of it, all the dust in that hole could not have settled there during the last half-hour; nor—and he was sure of this—had either of the boys, on their last two visits, been anywhere near that side of his shop.After all, he had “run his head against a stone wall,” and narrowly escaped ruining himself as far as Templeton was concerned. For he knew the young gentlemen of that school well enough to be sure, after a blunder like this, that the place would soon have become too hot to hold him.Mr Webster positively gasped at the thought of his narrow escape, and forgot all about Pledge, and the culprit, and the culprit’s friends, in his self congratulation.About mid-day, however, he was suddenly reminded of them all, by the vision of Dick darting into the shop.“Webster,” said that youth, in tones of breathless entreaty, “dolet us off this once! Coote really never took the pencil, and if you have him taken up, it will be ruination! I shall get in a row for coming down now, but I couldn’t help. We’ll do anything if you don’t take Coote up. I’ll get my father to pay you what you like. Will you, please, Webster?”The boy delivered this appeal so rapidly and earnestly that Webster had no time to stop him; but when Dick paused, he said:—“Make yourself comfortable, Mr Richardson, I’ve found the pencil.”Dick literally shouted, as he sprang forward and seized the bookseller’s hand:—“Found it! Oh, what a brick you are!”“Yes; it had fallen into that hole, and I just turned it out. Lucky for you and your friend it did. And I’m not sorry, either, for I’d no fancy for putting any of you to trouble; but I was bound to protect myself, you see.”“Of course, of course. You’re a regular trump, Webster,” cried Dick, too delighted to feel at all critical of the way in which the bookseller was extricating himself from his dilemma. “I’m so glad; so will they be. Thanks, awfully, Webster. I say, I must get aTempleton Observerfor the good of the shop.”And he flung down a sixpence in the bigness of his heart, and taking the newspaper, darted back to Templeton in a state of jubilation and happiness, which made passers-by, as he rushed down the street, turn round and look after him.In ten minutes Coote and Heathcote were as radiant as he; and that afternoon the Templeton “Tub” echoed with the boisterous glee of the three heroes, as they played leap-frog with one another in the water, and set the rocks almost aglow with the sunshine of their countenances.But Nemesis is proverbially a cruel old lady. She sports with her victims like a cat with a mouse. And just when the poor scared things, having escaped one terrible swoop of her hand, take breath, she comes down remorselessly with the other hand, and dashes away hope and breath at a blow.And so it fared with our unlucky heroes. No sooner had they escaped the fangs of Mr Webster, than they found themselves writhing in the clutches of a new terror, twice as bad and twice as awkward.In the first flush of escape, Dick had crammed theTempleton Observer, which he had paid sixpence for in celebration of the finding of the pencil, into his pocket, and never given it another thought. During the evening, however, having occasion to search the pocket for another of its numerous contents, he came upon it, and drew it out.“What’s that—theTempleton Observer?” asked Heathcote, becoming suddenly serious. “Anything in it?”“I haven’t looked,” said Dick, becoming serious, too, and inwardly anathematising the public press.“May as well,” said Heathcote.“Perhaps there’ll be something about the All England Tennis Cup in it,” said Coote.Dick opened the paper, and his jaw dropped at the first paragraph which met his eye.“Well,” said Heathcote, reflecting his friend’s consternation in his own looks, “whatever is it?”“Has Lawshaw won it, or Renford?” inquired Coote.Dick passed the paper to Georgie, who read as follows:—The mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—The boatman Thomas White was arrested yesterday at Glistow, andwill be charged before the magistrates on Saturday with fraudulently pawning the boatMartha, knowing the same to be only partially his own property. The case is attracting much interest in the town. No news has yet reached us of the missing boat, but we hear on good authority that circumstances have come to light pointing to White himself as the thief, and we believe evidence to this effect will be offered at Saturday’s examination. The police are reticent on the subject.“What was the score of sets?” asked Coote, as Heathcote put down the paper.The latter replied by handing the paper to the questioner and pointing to the fatal paragraph.Coote read it in great bewilderment. Of course he knew all about Tom White’s row and the missingMartha. Every Templeton fellow, from Mansfield down to Gosse, knew it. But why should Dick and Heathcote look so precious solemn about it?“By Jove!” said he, “I wish they’d catch the fellow. What’s the use of the police being reticent?”“Coote, old man,” said Dick, in a tone which made the youth addressed open his eyes, “do you know how theMarthagot lost?”“Stolen,” said Coote, “by a fellow who was skulking about on the sands.”“Wrong. She was turned adrift; someone loosed the anchor rope when the tide was coming in.”“How do you know that?”“Because I was the fellow.”“And I helped,” said Heathcote.“My eye! what a regular row!” said Coote.Whereupon the “Firm” swore eternal friendship, and resolved to sink or swim together.

Templeton opened its eyes as it saw David and Jonathan walking together across the fields that afternoon. The Den, with native quickness of perception, instantly snuffed a battle in the air, and dogged the heels of the champions with partisan shouts and cheers.

“Dick will finish him in a round and a half,” shouted Raggles.

“Don’t you be too cock-sure,” cried Gosse, “Georgie’s got a neat ‘square-fender’ on him, and I rather fancy him best myself.”

Gosse had not the ghost of a notion what a “square-fender” was; nor had anyone else. But the word carried weight, and there was a run on Georgie accordingly.

Raggles, however, was not to be snuffed out too easily.

“Bah!” shouted he, “what’s the use of a ‘square-fender,’ when Dick can get down his ‘postman’s knock’ over the top, and blink his man into fits.”

After that Georgie was nowhere. A fellow who can “blink” his man with a “postman’s knock,” no matter what it means, is worth half-a-dozen “square-fenders.” And so Dick became a favourite, and the event was considered as good as settled.

Which was just as well; for our heroes, as they walked in search of Coote, could not be so engrossed either in their newly-healed alliance, or in the affliction of their friend, as to be unaware of the commotion at their heels. And it was not till Dick had ordered the foremost of the procession to “hook it,” enforcing his precept by one or two impartially-distributed samples of his “postman’s knock,” that it dawned on the Den there was to be no fight after all.

Whereupon they yapped off in disgust, with their noses in the air, in search of some better sport.

Left to themselves, our heroes, with a strange mixture of joy and anxiety in their hearts, broke into a trot, and presently sighted Coote.

That unhappy youth, little dreaming of the revolution which his scrape was destined to effect in Templeton, was still sitting where Dick had left him, ruefully meditating on his near prospect of incarceration. The vision of Dick and Heathcote advancing upon him by no means tended to allay the tumult of his feelings.

“I’m in for it now,” groaned he to himself. “They’re both going to pitch into me for telling the other. What a mule I was ever to come to Templeton.”

But Dick’s first words dispelled these gloomy forebodings effectually.

“Keep your pecker up, old man, Georgie and I are both going to back you up. We’ll pull you through somehow.”

“I’ve got ten bob,” said Georgie. “That’s twenty-seven-and-six. Perhaps he’ll let you off the other half-crown.”

Considering he had not abstracted the pencil at all, Coote inwardly thought Mr Webster might forego this small balance, and be no loser. And he half-hinted as much.

“It’s an awful shame,” said he, “not to believe my word. I really don’t see why we ought to stump up at all.”

But this proposal by no means suited his ardent backers-up, who looked upon the whole affair as providential, and by no means to be burked.

“Bound to do it,” said Dick decisively. “Things look ugly against you, you know, and it would be a terrible business if you got locked up. It would cost less to square Webster then to bail you out; wouldn’t it, Georgie?”

“Rather!” said Georgie. “Besides, it looks awkward if it gets out that you’ve been to prison.—Our ‘Firm’ oughtn’t to get mixed up in that sort of mess.”

After this, Coote resigned all pretensions to the further direction of his own defence, and left his case unreservedly in the hands of his two honest partners.

They decided that very evening, with or without leave, to go down with the twenty-seven-and-six to Mr Webster.

Dick was the only one of the three who got leave; but his two friends considered the crisis one of such urgency that even without leave they should brave all consequences and accompany him.

Mr Webster was in the act of putting up his shutters when the small careworn procession halted before his door, and requested the favour of an interview.

The bookseller was in a good temper. He had rather enjoyed the day’s adventure, and reckoned that the moral effect of his action would be good. Besides, the looks of the culprit and his two friends fully justified his suspicions. They had doubtless come to restore the pencil, and plead for mercy. They should see that mercy was not kept in stock in his shop, and would want some little trouble before it was to be procured.

So he bade his visitors step inside, and state their business.

“We’ve come about the pencil, you know,” said Dick, adopting a conciliatory tone to begin with. “It’s really a mistake, Webster. Coote never took it.”

“No. We’ve known Coote for years, and never knew him do such a thing,” said Heathcote.

“And they’ve turned out every one of my pockets,” said Coote, “and there was no sign of it.”

Mr Webster smiled serenely.

“Very pretty, young gentlemen; very pretty. When you have done joking, perhaps, you’ll give me what belongs to me.”

“Hang it!” cried Dick, forgetting his suavity. “It’s no joke, Webster. I tell you, Coote never took the thing.”

“You were here in the shop, of course, and saw him?” said the tradesman.

“No, I wasn’t,” said Dick; “you know that as well as I do.”

“Coote,” said Heathcote, feeling it his turn to back up—“Coote’s a gentleman; not a thief.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Mr Webster. “He’s sure he’s not both?”

“I’m positive,” said Coote.

“And is that all you’ve come to say?” said the bookseller.

“No,” said Dick. “It’s an awful shame if you can’t believe us. But if you won’t—well, we’d sooner pay you for the pencil and have done with it.”

Mr Webster was charmed. He had always imagined himself a sharp man and he was sure of it now. For a minute or two the boys’ joint protestations of innocence had staggered his belief in Coote’s guilt; but this ingenuous offer convinced him he had been right after all.

“Oh, you didn’t steal it, but you’re going to pay for it, are you? Very pretty! What do you think it was worth?”

“Thirty shillings,” said Dick, “that was the price marked on it.”

“And yet you never saw it.”

“Of course I didn’t,” retorted Dick, beginning to feel hot. “I’ve told you so twice—Coote saw it.”

“Yes,” said Coote, “there was a tiny label on it.”

“We can’t make up quite thirty shillings,” said Heathcote; “but we’ve got twenty-seven shillings and sixpence. I suppose you’ll make that do?”

“Doyou suppose I’ll make it do?” said Mr Webster, beginning to feel hot, too. “You think you can come to my shop, and pilfer my things like so many young pickpockets; and then you have the impudence to come and offer me part of the price to say nothing about it. No, thank you. That’s not my way of doing business.”

“There’s nothing else we can do,” said Dick.

“Oh, yes, there is. You can march off to the lockup—all three of you if you like; but one of you, anyhow. And so you will, as sure as I stand here.”

“Oh, Mr Webster, I say, please don’t say that. He never took it, really he didn’t.”

“Come, that’ll do. Twelve o’clock to-morrow, unless I get the pencil, you’ll get a call from the police. Off you go. I’ve had enough of you.”

And the bookseller, whose temper had gradually been evaporating during the visit, bustled our heroes out of the shop, and slammed the door behind them.

“It’s all up, old man,” said Heathcote, lugubriously. “I did think the cad would shut up for twenty-seven shillings and sixpence.”

“I’m afraid he wants me more than the money,” said Coote. “WhatevercanI do?”

“You can’t prove you didn’t take it; that’s the worst,” said Dick.

“He can’t prove I did. He only thinks I did. How I wish Ihadthat stupid pencil.”

With which original conclusion they returned to Templeton. Dick, under cover of hisexeatsmarched ostentatiously in. The other two, in a far more modest and shy manner, entered by their hands and knees, on receipt of a signal from their leader that the coast was clear.

Heathcote deemed it prudent not to exhibit himself in the Den, and therefore retired to Pledge’s study as the place least likely to be dangerous.

Pledge was there working.

“Hullo, youngster,” said he, “what’s been your little game this evening? Been to a prayer meeting?”

“No,” said Heathcote laconically.

It was no part of Pledge’s manner to appear inquisitive. He saw there was a mystery, and knew better than to appear in the slightest degree anxious to solve it.

He had as yet heard nothing of the newly-formed alliance in low life, and attributed Heathcote’s uncommunicativeness either to shame for some discreditable proceeding, or else to passing ill-humour. In either case he reckoned on knowing all about it before long.

Heathcote was very uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him till just now that Pledge would resent the return of his allegiance to Dick as an act of insubordination. Not that that would keep him from Dick; but Heathcote, who had hitherto admired his old patron as a friend, by no means relished the idea of having him an enemy. He therefore felt that the best thing he could do was to hold his tongue, and if, after all, a row was to come, well—it would have to come.

He sat down to do his own preparation, and for half an hour neither student broke the silence.

Then Pledge, who had never known hisprotégésilent for so long together before, felt there must be something the matter which he ought to be aware of.

So he leaned back in his chair and stretched himself.

“You’re a nice boy, George!” said he, laughing; “you’ve been sitting half an hour with your pen in your hand and haven’t written a word.”

Georgie coloured up.

“It’s a stiff bit of prose,” said he.

“So it seems. Suppose I do it for you?”

“No, thanks, Pledge,” said the boy, who, without having any particular horror of having his lessons done for him, did not like just now, when he was conscious of having revolted against his senior, to accept favours from him.

“No? It’s true, then, Georgie is joining the elect and going to take holy orders?”

“No, I’m not,” said Georgie.

“Then Georgie is trying to be funny and not succeeding,” said the monitor, drily, returning to his own books.

Another silent quarter of an hour passed, and then the first bed bell rang.

“Good-night,” said Heathcote, gathering together his books.

“Good-night, dear boy!” said Pledge, with the red spots coming out on his cheeks; “come down with me to the ‘Tub’ in the morning.”

“I’m going down with another fellow,” said Georgie, feeling his heart bumping in his chest.

“Oh!” said the monitor, indifferently; “with averydear friend?—the saintly Dick, for instance?”

“Yes,” said Heathcote, and left the room.

Pledge sat motionless, watching the closed door for a full minute, and, as he did so, an ugly look crept over his face, which it was well for Heathcote he did not see. Then he turned mechanically to his books, and buried himself in them for the rest of the evening.

The “Tub” next morning was crowded as usual, and it needed very little penetration on Pledge’s part to see that the triple alliance between our three heroes was fast and serious.

They undressed on the same rock, they dived side by side from the spring-board, they came above water at the same moment, they challenged collectively any other three of the Den to meet them in mortal combat in mid-Tub, and they ended up their performance by swimming solemnly in from the open arm-in-arm, Coote, of course, being in the middle.

All this Pledge observed, and marked also their anxious looks and hurried consultations as they dressed. He guessed that there must be some matter of common interest which was just then acting as the pivot on which the alliance turned, and his taste for scientific research determined him, if possible, to discover it.

So when, after “Tub,” the three friends marched arm-in-arm down town, Pledge casually strolled the same way at a respectful distance.

It was clear the “Firm” was bound on a momentous and unpleasant errand.

Coote every other minute was convulsed by the brotherly claps which the backers-up on either side bestowed upon him; and the long faces of all three, as now and then they stopped and scrutinised the shop-window of some silversmith or pawnbroker, betokened anything but content or high spirits.

At length Pledge saw them enter very dejectedly at Mr Webster’s door, where, not being anxious to disturb them, he left them and took a short turn down the shady side of High Street, within view of the stationer’s shop.

Their business was not protracted, for in about three minutes he saw them emerge, with faces longer than ever, and turn their steps hurriedly and dismally towards Templeton.

When they were out of sight, Pledge crossed the road and casually turned in at Mr Webster’s door.

“Well, Webster, anything new?”

“No, sir; nothing in your line, I’m afraid,” said the shopman.

“By the way,” said Pledge, carelessly, “was that my fag I saw coming out here just now?”

“Mr Heathcote?” said Webster, frowning. “Yes, that was he, sir, and two friends of his. I’m afraid he’s getting into bad company, Mr Pledge.”

“Are you? What makes you think that?”

“It’s an unpleasant matter altogether,” said Mr Webster, “and likely to be more so. The fact is, sir, I’ve been robbed.”

And he proceeded to give Pledge an account of the loss of the pencil-case, and of the efforts of the boys to get the matter hushed up.

Pledge heard it with an amused smile.

“They’ve just been here to try and buy me off,” said the indignant shopkeeper, “but I’m going to make an example of them. I’m sorry to do it, Mr Pledge, but it’s only fair to myself, isn’t it, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Pledge; “I don’t see that it will do you much good. You’d better leave it to me.”

“Leave it to you?”

“Well, I expect I can get back your pencil as easily as you can, if they’ve got it. You’re sure they have got it?”

“I’m certain Master Coote took it; certain as I stand here. What they’ve done with it among them I can’t say.”

“Well, don’t be in a hurry. I’m a monitor, you know, and it’s as much to my interest to follow the thing up as to yours. If you’ll take my advice, you won’t be in a hurry to prosecute. Wait a week.”

“Very good, sir,” said the bookseller, to whom it was really a relief to postpone final action for a day or two, at least. If Pledge, meanwhile, should succeed in bringing the culprit to book, it would still rest with Mr Webster to decide whether to make an example of him or not Pledge departed, and the bookseller turned to dust his shop out for the day. In this occupation he had not proceeded far, when his brush, penetrating into a crack in his counter, caused something within to rattle. Being a tidy man, and not favouring dust or dirt of any sort, even out of sight, he proceeded to probe the hole in order to clear away the obstruction, when, to his amazement and consternation, he discovered, snugly lying in the hollow, the lost pencil-case!

Mr Webster’s first thought was, “Artful young rogues! They’ve brought it back, and hidden it here to escape punishment!”

And yet, when he came to think of it, all the dust in that hole could not have settled there during the last half-hour; nor—and he was sure of this—had either of the boys, on their last two visits, been anywhere near that side of his shop.

After all, he had “run his head against a stone wall,” and narrowly escaped ruining himself as far as Templeton was concerned. For he knew the young gentlemen of that school well enough to be sure, after a blunder like this, that the place would soon have become too hot to hold him.

Mr Webster positively gasped at the thought of his narrow escape, and forgot all about Pledge, and the culprit, and the culprit’s friends, in his self congratulation.

About mid-day, however, he was suddenly reminded of them all, by the vision of Dick darting into the shop.

“Webster,” said that youth, in tones of breathless entreaty, “dolet us off this once! Coote really never took the pencil, and if you have him taken up, it will be ruination! I shall get in a row for coming down now, but I couldn’t help. We’ll do anything if you don’t take Coote up. I’ll get my father to pay you what you like. Will you, please, Webster?”

The boy delivered this appeal so rapidly and earnestly that Webster had no time to stop him; but when Dick paused, he said:—

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr Richardson, I’ve found the pencil.”

Dick literally shouted, as he sprang forward and seized the bookseller’s hand:—

“Found it! Oh, what a brick you are!”

“Yes; it had fallen into that hole, and I just turned it out. Lucky for you and your friend it did. And I’m not sorry, either, for I’d no fancy for putting any of you to trouble; but I was bound to protect myself, you see.”

“Of course, of course. You’re a regular trump, Webster,” cried Dick, too delighted to feel at all critical of the way in which the bookseller was extricating himself from his dilemma. “I’m so glad; so will they be. Thanks, awfully, Webster. I say, I must get aTempleton Observerfor the good of the shop.”

And he flung down a sixpence in the bigness of his heart, and taking the newspaper, darted back to Templeton in a state of jubilation and happiness, which made passers-by, as he rushed down the street, turn round and look after him.

In ten minutes Coote and Heathcote were as radiant as he; and that afternoon the Templeton “Tub” echoed with the boisterous glee of the three heroes, as they played leap-frog with one another in the water, and set the rocks almost aglow with the sunshine of their countenances.

But Nemesis is proverbially a cruel old lady. She sports with her victims like a cat with a mouse. And just when the poor scared things, having escaped one terrible swoop of her hand, take breath, she comes down remorselessly with the other hand, and dashes away hope and breath at a blow.

And so it fared with our unlucky heroes. No sooner had they escaped the fangs of Mr Webster, than they found themselves writhing in the clutches of a new terror, twice as bad and twice as awkward.

In the first flush of escape, Dick had crammed theTempleton Observer, which he had paid sixpence for in celebration of the finding of the pencil, into his pocket, and never given it another thought. During the evening, however, having occasion to search the pocket for another of its numerous contents, he came upon it, and drew it out.

“What’s that—theTempleton Observer?” asked Heathcote, becoming suddenly serious. “Anything in it?”

“I haven’t looked,” said Dick, becoming serious, too, and inwardly anathematising the public press.

“May as well,” said Heathcote.

“Perhaps there’ll be something about the All England Tennis Cup in it,” said Coote.

Dick opened the paper, and his jaw dropped at the first paragraph which met his eye.

“Well,” said Heathcote, reflecting his friend’s consternation in his own looks, “whatever is it?”

“Has Lawshaw won it, or Renford?” inquired Coote.

Dick passed the paper to Georgie, who read as follows:—

The mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—The boatman Thomas White was arrested yesterday at Glistow, andwill be charged before the magistrates on Saturday with fraudulently pawning the boatMartha, knowing the same to be only partially his own property. The case is attracting much interest in the town. No news has yet reached us of the missing boat, but we hear on good authority that circumstances have come to light pointing to White himself as the thief, and we believe evidence to this effect will be offered at Saturday’s examination. The police are reticent on the subject.

The mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—The boatman Thomas White was arrested yesterday at Glistow, andwill be charged before the magistrates on Saturday with fraudulently pawning the boatMartha, knowing the same to be only partially his own property. The case is attracting much interest in the town. No news has yet reached us of the missing boat, but we hear on good authority that circumstances have come to light pointing to White himself as the thief, and we believe evidence to this effect will be offered at Saturday’s examination. The police are reticent on the subject.

“What was the score of sets?” asked Coote, as Heathcote put down the paper.

The latter replied by handing the paper to the questioner and pointing to the fatal paragraph.

Coote read it in great bewilderment. Of course he knew all about Tom White’s row and the missingMartha. Every Templeton fellow, from Mansfield down to Gosse, knew it. But why should Dick and Heathcote look so precious solemn about it?

“By Jove!” said he, “I wish they’d catch the fellow. What’s the use of the police being reticent?”

“Coote, old man,” said Dick, in a tone which made the youth addressed open his eyes, “do you know how theMarthagot lost?”

“Stolen,” said Coote, “by a fellow who was skulking about on the sands.”

“Wrong. She was turned adrift; someone loosed the anchor rope when the tide was coming in.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I was the fellow.”

“And I helped,” said Heathcote.

“My eye! what a regular row!” said Coote.

Whereupon the “Firm” swore eternal friendship, and resolved to sink or swim together.

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