Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Sixteen.In which a notable Triple Alliance is renewed.The six short weeks of holiday darted away only too quickly.Dick, in the whirl of family life, a hero to his sisters, and a caution to his young brothers, forgot all the troubles of the term, and all its disappointments, all about the “Select Sociables,” and all about Tom White’s boat, in one glorious burst of holiday freedom.He even forgot about his irregular verbs; and the good resolutions with which he had returned, he left packed up in his trunk until the time came to take them back to Templeton.Still, it wasn’t a bad time, on the whole, for Dick. Like some small boat that gets out of the rushing tide for a little into some quiet creek, he had time to overhaul himself and pull himself together, ready for another voyage. He was able, in the home harbour, to take some little fresh ballast on board and to rearrange what he at present had. He was able to stow away some of his useless tackle and bale out some of the water he had shipped in the last few rapids. Altogether, though Dick was not exactly a boy given to self-examination, or self-dedication, and although he would have scouted the notion that he was going in for being a reformed character, his little cruise in calm water did him good, and steadied him for his next venture on the tide, when the time should come.It was not so with George Heathcote. He was a craft of flimsier build than his leader, and the tide had gone harder with him. There was a leak somewhere, and the tackle was a-twist, and the ballast rolled to one side. And, for him, the home harbour was no place for repairs.Heathcote had neither father nor mother, and though his old relative did her best for him, the boy was more or less at a loose end at home, with no better guide than his own whims. The wonder was, considering his surroundings, that Heathcote was not utterly spoiled, that he was still honest and amiable, and amenable to good influence when he came across it.He did not, however, come across much these holidays. For four weeks he kicked his heels about in any way that suited him, and began to long for Templeton again, and the face of a friend.Then one day a letter came to him from Pledge.“Dear Youngster,—You said something about wanting to see London these holidays. What do you say to coming here on a visit? My father and mother would be glad to see you, and we can go back to Templeton together. If you come to-morrow, you’ll be in time for the last day of the Australian match at the Oval—Yours truly,—“P. Pledge.”Heathcote jumped at the invitation. An invitation from anybody would have been welcome just then, but to be asked by his own senior, in this unexpected way, was both tempting and flattering.So he took the letter to his grandmother, and indulged in a glowing account of Pledge’s virtues and merits. The good lady, of course, gave her consent, and the very next day Georgie was in London.The week slipped by in a round of pleasures for Heathcote. Pledge, the spoiled child of wealthy parents, was pretty much his own master, and spared no pains to make his young protégé at home, and gratify his every inclination. To Georgie, the life in which he found himself was bewildering in its novelty.Pledge showed him London. They saw public buildings, and they saw the great streets; they went to theatrical entertainments, and concerts, and parties. They met friends, good and bad, and heard talk, good and bad. No one thought of making any distinction; no one seemed to admit that there was much distinction. It was all life. If some went in for the good, well, let them; if others went in for the bad, what right had any one to interfere? and if any went in for a little of both, well, wasn’t the balance about straight, and who was any the worse for it?Heathcote felt that he was in Liberty Hall—that he might do exactly as he liked without the awkwardness of feeling that any one was surprised, or that any one was shocked. Pledge did not distinctly tempt him to do anything; and yet, during that one short week, the boy’s moral sense was more deeply undermined than during the whole of the term that had passed. The clear line between good and evil vanished. And, seeing the two side by side, and hearing his companion’s constant sneers at “sanctity,” it became natural to him to suspect the good and, of the two, prefer the evil.So Georgie Heathcote went back to Templeton the worse for his holidays, and snared faster than ever in the “Spider’s” web.But the sight of Dick on the Templeton platform drove all his unhealthy philosophy for a time from his mind, and when, an hour later, the train from G— came in and discharged Coote and Coote’s hat-box and travelling-bag, there was joy in the hearts of those three old Mountjoy boys, which could not find vent in mere smiles or words of greeting.Coote was in a horrible flutter, despite the countenance of his two protectors. He could not trust himself out of their sight. As they walked up from the station and crossed the Quadrangle, he suspected a snare everywhere, and sniffed an enemy at every corner.“Come on, old fellow,” said Dick, in all the glory of an old hand, “stick your hat on the back of your head, and make a face at everybody you meet, and nobody will humbug you.”Coote had his doubts of this advice; but, it occurred to him, if it should be good, he had better make the experiment while his friends were there to protect him.So he tilted his hat cautiously back, and timidly protruded his tongue at Culver, whom they met staggering under the weight of a carpet bag, near the housekeeper’s door.Culver regarded the demonstration with a certain amount of bewildered disfavour, and, to Coote’s terror, looked for a moment like putting down his carpet bag. But the presence of Dick and Heathcote deterred him for the present, and he contented himself with a promise that tilted the new boy’s hat back into its proper elevation with wonderful celerity.“Never mind him,” said Heathcote, “he always doubles up after five or six rounds.”“Do you mean he will fight me?” asked Coote.“Bless you, yes!”“To-day, do you think?”“Don’t know. Depends on what he’s got in his bag. If it’s a cargo, he won’t be out for a couple of nights.”All this was very alarming to Coote, who devoutly hoped Culver’s “cargo” might be big enough to keep him many nights in unloading it.Dick and Heathcote led their junior partner rejoicing to the housekeeper, and assisted in counting out his shirts and socks. They then took him to show him off in the lobbies, deserting him once or twice, to his consternation, in order to greet some crony or take part in a mild shindy in the studies.The presence of their “new kid” inspired them with a wonderful fund of humour and audacity. His astonishment flattered them and his panics delighted them. With a lively recollection of their own experiences last term, they took care he should be wandering in the Quad when the “dredger” came its rounds; and, for fear he should miss the warm consolations of a lower third “Scrunch,” they organised one for his special benefit, and had the happiness of seeing him rising in the middle, scared and puffing, with cheeks the colour of a peony. All the while they tried to figure as his protectors, and demanded credit for getting him through his ordeals in a way he would by no means have got, if left, as they had been, to his own resources.Nor were they wholly unoriginal in their endeavours to make him feel at home in his new surroundings.“By George! it’s ten minutes to dinner-time,” said Dick, looking at the clock. “There’ll be a frightful row if you are late first day, and you’ve barely time to dress.”“Dress! I am dressed,” said Coote, in alarm.“You muff, you’re not in your flannels. Think of a new fellow turning up to Hall first day not in his flannels, eh, Georgie?”“My eye!” said Georgie; “what a row there’d be!”“Cut as hard as ever you can, and put them on. Better not show up till just as the clock strikes, in case fellows humbug you. We’ll be near the door and show you where to sit.”“Whatever should I have done,” thought the grateful Coote to himself, as he rushed off to don his brand-new flannels, “if it hadn’t been for those two bricks?”The “two bricks” waited somewhat anxiously near the door of the Hall for their “new kid,” and as the clock began to strike they had the joy of seeing him dart resplendent across the Quad, keeping in the shade as much as possible, and looking nervously up at the clock.“Lamm it on!” called Heathcote, as the bell ceased and the breathless athlete ran into their arms.“Am I all right?” asked the victim.“So-so,” said they, surveying him critically, “but you’d better carry your coat over your arm. Look out, Winter will be coming in. You’ve got to sit up there at the top table, in that empty chair. Look alive, or he’ll catch you.”And as the blushing innocent walked up the room, the observed of all observers, and made straight for the Head Master’s table, our heroes became absorbed in admiration of the plates in front of them, and positively trembled with the emotion their beauty evoked.Every one was most polite to the abashed new boy on his journey up the room. They ceased talking as they beheld him, and respectfully made room for him. Some even were good enough to assist his progress by word and gesture.“Where are you going, my pretty maid?” asked Birket of the rosy youth, as he neared his destination.The poetical suggestion was too much for the Fifth, who caught up the pastoral ditty, and accompanied the measured tread of the wanderer with an undertone chorus of—“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’‘I’m going to dinner, sir,’ she said.‘May I go with you, my pretty maid?’‘Not if I know it, sir,’ she said.”Coote got used to the pretty melody before the term was over, but just now his sense of music was deadened by the apparition of Dr Winter, who entered by a door at the upper end of the Hall, and walked straight for the chair which the modest novice had looked upon as the goal of his tedious journey.“Cut back!” said Birket, coming to the rescue just in time, and turning the unhappy boy to the rightabout. “They’ve been making a fool of you.”Then might have been seen a spotless white figure flying like the wind down the Hall of Templeton, making the place rosy with his blushes, and merry with his hot haste.Dick and Heathcote caught their brother as he made for the door, and squeezed him in between them at their table, where roast beef and good cheer restored some of his drooping spirits, while the applause of his patrons and the success of the whole adventure went far to reduce the tension which otherwise might have threatened the stability of the “Firm.”But after that, Coote felt his confidence in the “two bricks,” on whom he had hitherto relied so implicitly, a trifle shaken, and was not quite sure whether, after all, a new boy might not get through his first few days as comfortably without the protection of two bosom friends as with it.There being very few new boys this term compared with last, he found himself by no means neglected in his walks abroad, and it required all his wariness to elude the gins and pitfalls prepared for him. Indeed, his very wariness got him into trouble.After chapel on his second morning Swinstead came to him and said—“Youngster, you are to go to the Doctor at half-past nine.”“Oh, ah!” said Coote to himself, knowingly. “I know what that means.”“Do you hear?” asked Swinstead.“I suppose you think I’m green,” said the new boy.Swinstead laughed.“What on earth should make me think that?” said he.Coote chuckled merrily to himself as he saw the senior depart.“I’m getting over the worst of it,” said he to himself. “They’ll soon give up trying it on me. Ha, ha!”And he went off to find his chums, who took him for a stroll in the Fields.“Well, young ’un,” said Dick, patronisingly, “getting used to it? Worn your flannels lately?”“You’re a beastly cad, Dick,” said Coote; “but you don’t catch me like that again.”“No, you’re getting too knowing,” said Georgie.Coote laughed.“I’m not quite as green as some fellows think,” said he. “A fellow came to me this morning and told me to go to the Doctor at 9:30. A nice fool he thought he’d make of me. Ha, ha!”“What fellow was he?” said Dick, looking rather serious.“I don’t know his name,” said Coote. “The fellow who marked the names in chapel, I believe.”“What, Swinstead? Did he tell you to go?”“Rather; and I told him I wasn’t such a fool as I looked—I mean as he thought.”“By Jove!—you young ass! You’ve got yourself into a mess, if you like.”“How do you mean?” inquired the new boy, beginning to be alarmed at the concerned looks of his two friends.“Why, he’s Chapel usher,” said Dick. “Do you mean to say you didn’t go to the Doctor?”“Rather not. I—”“What’s the time?” said Dick.“A quarter to ten.”Without more ado they took the unhappy Coote between them and rushed him frantically back to the school, where they shot him in at the Doctor’s door just as that gentleman was about to dismiss his new boys’ class.“How is this, Coote?” demanded the Head Master, sternly, as the breathless boy entered. “Were you not told to be here at half-past nine?”“Yes, sir; I—I made a mistake. I’m very sorry, sir.”The genuine terror in his face procured his reprieve this time. Dr Winter may have been used to “mistakes” of this kind. At any rate, he contented himself with cautioning the new boy against unpunctuality generally, and, by way of punishment, gave him an examination all to himself, which resulted, much to his comfort, in his being placed in the upper third, of which Dick and Heathcote were already shining lights.While he was thus engaged, Dick and Heathcote were holding a secret, and by no means cheerful, consultation over a recent number of theTempleton Observer.“I made sure it was all blown over,” said the latter, dejectedly.“What a cad the fellow must be!” said the former.“I think newspapers are a regular nuisance!” said Georgie.“All I know is, he robbed us of all we had, and if we’d informed he’d have been in Botany Bay or somewhere this minute!” said Dick, working himself up into a passion.The extract from theTempleton Observerwhich gave rise to this duet of wrath was as follows, dated some ten days before the close of the holidays:—The recent mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—Up to the present time nothing has been heard of theMartha, which, as our readers will remember, disappeared from the Templeton beach, on the 4th June last. The supposed clue with which the police professed to be provided has, so far, failed to bring the perpetrators of the outrage to justice; although the hope is by no means abandoned of tracing the missing lad. The matter is somewhat seriously complicated by the discovery that Thomas White, the reputed owner of the boat, was at no time its actual proprietor. TheMarthawas the joint property of White and three other men, one of them skipper of the brigJulia, and the other two well-known fishermen, of this town. It appears that an arrangement was made, whereby White should be the nominal owner of the boat, he undertaking to hand over monthly three quarters of the profits to his partners. In May last, during the absence of his other partners, White pawned theMartharepresenting her to be his sole property, and appropriated the whole proceeds of the transaction. For this act of fraud (which the recent loss of the boat and the return of its joint owners has brought to light) we understand a writ has been issued against White, and that he will be arrested immediately on his return to Templeton from his present cruise with the Fishing Fleet in the high seas.“Tom White’s a regular bad one,” said Dick.“Yes. It was a jolly mean trick to pawn what didn’t belong to him.”“The thing is, who did it belong to when we—when it got adrift?”“The pawnbroker, I suppose,” said Heathcote. “Most likely Nash.”“No wonder Tom White didn’t seem much cut up about losing her.”“No; he made a good thing by it. It’s a comfort to think he’ll get nabbed at last.”“Of course, we’ve nothing to do with his row,” said Dick.“Of course not. We had nothing to do with pawning the boat.”And yet, they concluded, if theMarthahad never gone adrift, no one would have known of Tom White’s fraud, and he might have been able to make money enough with her to clear himself.It seemed unfair to rake up an old sore like this at the very beginning of the term, especially when, as they persuaded themselves, over and over again, the whole affair had very little to do with them.“I vote we don’t look at this wretched paper any more,” said Heathcote, crumpling up the offendingObserverinto a ball, and giving it a punt across the path.“Why not? We may as well see what becomes of Tom White,” said Dick. “Young Aspinall can fetch us up a copy once a week.”And so one of the events of the new term was that theTempleton Observerhad a new subscriber, and increased its circulation by two new and very diligent readers.

The six short weeks of holiday darted away only too quickly.

Dick, in the whirl of family life, a hero to his sisters, and a caution to his young brothers, forgot all the troubles of the term, and all its disappointments, all about the “Select Sociables,” and all about Tom White’s boat, in one glorious burst of holiday freedom.

He even forgot about his irregular verbs; and the good resolutions with which he had returned, he left packed up in his trunk until the time came to take them back to Templeton.

Still, it wasn’t a bad time, on the whole, for Dick. Like some small boat that gets out of the rushing tide for a little into some quiet creek, he had time to overhaul himself and pull himself together, ready for another voyage. He was able, in the home harbour, to take some little fresh ballast on board and to rearrange what he at present had. He was able to stow away some of his useless tackle and bale out some of the water he had shipped in the last few rapids. Altogether, though Dick was not exactly a boy given to self-examination, or self-dedication, and although he would have scouted the notion that he was going in for being a reformed character, his little cruise in calm water did him good, and steadied him for his next venture on the tide, when the time should come.

It was not so with George Heathcote. He was a craft of flimsier build than his leader, and the tide had gone harder with him. There was a leak somewhere, and the tackle was a-twist, and the ballast rolled to one side. And, for him, the home harbour was no place for repairs.

Heathcote had neither father nor mother, and though his old relative did her best for him, the boy was more or less at a loose end at home, with no better guide than his own whims. The wonder was, considering his surroundings, that Heathcote was not utterly spoiled, that he was still honest and amiable, and amenable to good influence when he came across it.

He did not, however, come across much these holidays. For four weeks he kicked his heels about in any way that suited him, and began to long for Templeton again, and the face of a friend.

Then one day a letter came to him from Pledge.

“Dear Youngster,—You said something about wanting to see London these holidays. What do you say to coming here on a visit? My father and mother would be glad to see you, and we can go back to Templeton together. If you come to-morrow, you’ll be in time for the last day of the Australian match at the Oval—Yours truly,—

“P. Pledge.”

Heathcote jumped at the invitation. An invitation from anybody would have been welcome just then, but to be asked by his own senior, in this unexpected way, was both tempting and flattering.

So he took the letter to his grandmother, and indulged in a glowing account of Pledge’s virtues and merits. The good lady, of course, gave her consent, and the very next day Georgie was in London.

The week slipped by in a round of pleasures for Heathcote. Pledge, the spoiled child of wealthy parents, was pretty much his own master, and spared no pains to make his young protégé at home, and gratify his every inclination. To Georgie, the life in which he found himself was bewildering in its novelty.

Pledge showed him London. They saw public buildings, and they saw the great streets; they went to theatrical entertainments, and concerts, and parties. They met friends, good and bad, and heard talk, good and bad. No one thought of making any distinction; no one seemed to admit that there was much distinction. It was all life. If some went in for the good, well, let them; if others went in for the bad, what right had any one to interfere? and if any went in for a little of both, well, wasn’t the balance about straight, and who was any the worse for it?

Heathcote felt that he was in Liberty Hall—that he might do exactly as he liked without the awkwardness of feeling that any one was surprised, or that any one was shocked. Pledge did not distinctly tempt him to do anything; and yet, during that one short week, the boy’s moral sense was more deeply undermined than during the whole of the term that had passed. The clear line between good and evil vanished. And, seeing the two side by side, and hearing his companion’s constant sneers at “sanctity,” it became natural to him to suspect the good and, of the two, prefer the evil.

So Georgie Heathcote went back to Templeton the worse for his holidays, and snared faster than ever in the “Spider’s” web.

But the sight of Dick on the Templeton platform drove all his unhealthy philosophy for a time from his mind, and when, an hour later, the train from G— came in and discharged Coote and Coote’s hat-box and travelling-bag, there was joy in the hearts of those three old Mountjoy boys, which could not find vent in mere smiles or words of greeting.

Coote was in a horrible flutter, despite the countenance of his two protectors. He could not trust himself out of their sight. As they walked up from the station and crossed the Quadrangle, he suspected a snare everywhere, and sniffed an enemy at every corner.

“Come on, old fellow,” said Dick, in all the glory of an old hand, “stick your hat on the back of your head, and make a face at everybody you meet, and nobody will humbug you.”

Coote had his doubts of this advice; but, it occurred to him, if it should be good, he had better make the experiment while his friends were there to protect him.

So he tilted his hat cautiously back, and timidly protruded his tongue at Culver, whom they met staggering under the weight of a carpet bag, near the housekeeper’s door.

Culver regarded the demonstration with a certain amount of bewildered disfavour, and, to Coote’s terror, looked for a moment like putting down his carpet bag. But the presence of Dick and Heathcote deterred him for the present, and he contented himself with a promise that tilted the new boy’s hat back into its proper elevation with wonderful celerity.

“Never mind him,” said Heathcote, “he always doubles up after five or six rounds.”

“Do you mean he will fight me?” asked Coote.

“Bless you, yes!”

“To-day, do you think?”

“Don’t know. Depends on what he’s got in his bag. If it’s a cargo, he won’t be out for a couple of nights.”

All this was very alarming to Coote, who devoutly hoped Culver’s “cargo” might be big enough to keep him many nights in unloading it.

Dick and Heathcote led their junior partner rejoicing to the housekeeper, and assisted in counting out his shirts and socks. They then took him to show him off in the lobbies, deserting him once or twice, to his consternation, in order to greet some crony or take part in a mild shindy in the studies.

The presence of their “new kid” inspired them with a wonderful fund of humour and audacity. His astonishment flattered them and his panics delighted them. With a lively recollection of their own experiences last term, they took care he should be wandering in the Quad when the “dredger” came its rounds; and, for fear he should miss the warm consolations of a lower third “Scrunch,” they organised one for his special benefit, and had the happiness of seeing him rising in the middle, scared and puffing, with cheeks the colour of a peony. All the while they tried to figure as his protectors, and demanded credit for getting him through his ordeals in a way he would by no means have got, if left, as they had been, to his own resources.

Nor were they wholly unoriginal in their endeavours to make him feel at home in his new surroundings.

“By George! it’s ten minutes to dinner-time,” said Dick, looking at the clock. “There’ll be a frightful row if you are late first day, and you’ve barely time to dress.”

“Dress! I am dressed,” said Coote, in alarm.

“You muff, you’re not in your flannels. Think of a new fellow turning up to Hall first day not in his flannels, eh, Georgie?”

“My eye!” said Georgie; “what a row there’d be!”

“Cut as hard as ever you can, and put them on. Better not show up till just as the clock strikes, in case fellows humbug you. We’ll be near the door and show you where to sit.”

“Whatever should I have done,” thought the grateful Coote to himself, as he rushed off to don his brand-new flannels, “if it hadn’t been for those two bricks?”

The “two bricks” waited somewhat anxiously near the door of the Hall for their “new kid,” and as the clock began to strike they had the joy of seeing him dart resplendent across the Quad, keeping in the shade as much as possible, and looking nervously up at the clock.

“Lamm it on!” called Heathcote, as the bell ceased and the breathless athlete ran into their arms.

“Am I all right?” asked the victim.

“So-so,” said they, surveying him critically, “but you’d better carry your coat over your arm. Look out, Winter will be coming in. You’ve got to sit up there at the top table, in that empty chair. Look alive, or he’ll catch you.”

And as the blushing innocent walked up the room, the observed of all observers, and made straight for the Head Master’s table, our heroes became absorbed in admiration of the plates in front of them, and positively trembled with the emotion their beauty evoked.

Every one was most polite to the abashed new boy on his journey up the room. They ceased talking as they beheld him, and respectfully made room for him. Some even were good enough to assist his progress by word and gesture.

“Where are you going, my pretty maid?” asked Birket of the rosy youth, as he neared his destination.

The poetical suggestion was too much for the Fifth, who caught up the pastoral ditty, and accompanied the measured tread of the wanderer with an undertone chorus of—

“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’‘I’m going to dinner, sir,’ she said.‘May I go with you, my pretty maid?’‘Not if I know it, sir,’ she said.”

“‘Where are you going, my pretty maid?’‘I’m going to dinner, sir,’ she said.‘May I go with you, my pretty maid?’‘Not if I know it, sir,’ she said.”

Coote got used to the pretty melody before the term was over, but just now his sense of music was deadened by the apparition of Dr Winter, who entered by a door at the upper end of the Hall, and walked straight for the chair which the modest novice had looked upon as the goal of his tedious journey.

“Cut back!” said Birket, coming to the rescue just in time, and turning the unhappy boy to the rightabout. “They’ve been making a fool of you.”

Then might have been seen a spotless white figure flying like the wind down the Hall of Templeton, making the place rosy with his blushes, and merry with his hot haste.

Dick and Heathcote caught their brother as he made for the door, and squeezed him in between them at their table, where roast beef and good cheer restored some of his drooping spirits, while the applause of his patrons and the success of the whole adventure went far to reduce the tension which otherwise might have threatened the stability of the “Firm.”

But after that, Coote felt his confidence in the “two bricks,” on whom he had hitherto relied so implicitly, a trifle shaken, and was not quite sure whether, after all, a new boy might not get through his first few days as comfortably without the protection of two bosom friends as with it.

There being very few new boys this term compared with last, he found himself by no means neglected in his walks abroad, and it required all his wariness to elude the gins and pitfalls prepared for him. Indeed, his very wariness got him into trouble.

After chapel on his second morning Swinstead came to him and said—

“Youngster, you are to go to the Doctor at half-past nine.”

“Oh, ah!” said Coote to himself, knowingly. “I know what that means.”

“Do you hear?” asked Swinstead.

“I suppose you think I’m green,” said the new boy.

Swinstead laughed.

“What on earth should make me think that?” said he.

Coote chuckled merrily to himself as he saw the senior depart.

“I’m getting over the worst of it,” said he to himself. “They’ll soon give up trying it on me. Ha, ha!”

And he went off to find his chums, who took him for a stroll in the Fields.

“Well, young ’un,” said Dick, patronisingly, “getting used to it? Worn your flannels lately?”

“You’re a beastly cad, Dick,” said Coote; “but you don’t catch me like that again.”

“No, you’re getting too knowing,” said Georgie.

Coote laughed.

“I’m not quite as green as some fellows think,” said he. “A fellow came to me this morning and told me to go to the Doctor at 9:30. A nice fool he thought he’d make of me. Ha, ha!”

“What fellow was he?” said Dick, looking rather serious.

“I don’t know his name,” said Coote. “The fellow who marked the names in chapel, I believe.”

“What, Swinstead? Did he tell you to go?”

“Rather; and I told him I wasn’t such a fool as I looked—I mean as he thought.”

“By Jove!—you young ass! You’ve got yourself into a mess, if you like.”

“How do you mean?” inquired the new boy, beginning to be alarmed at the concerned looks of his two friends.

“Why, he’s Chapel usher,” said Dick. “Do you mean to say you didn’t go to the Doctor?”

“Rather not. I—”

“What’s the time?” said Dick.

“A quarter to ten.”

Without more ado they took the unhappy Coote between them and rushed him frantically back to the school, where they shot him in at the Doctor’s door just as that gentleman was about to dismiss his new boys’ class.

“How is this, Coote?” demanded the Head Master, sternly, as the breathless boy entered. “Were you not told to be here at half-past nine?”

“Yes, sir; I—I made a mistake. I’m very sorry, sir.”

The genuine terror in his face procured his reprieve this time. Dr Winter may have been used to “mistakes” of this kind. At any rate, he contented himself with cautioning the new boy against unpunctuality generally, and, by way of punishment, gave him an examination all to himself, which resulted, much to his comfort, in his being placed in the upper third, of which Dick and Heathcote were already shining lights.

While he was thus engaged, Dick and Heathcote were holding a secret, and by no means cheerful, consultation over a recent number of theTempleton Observer.

“I made sure it was all blown over,” said the latter, dejectedly.

“What a cad the fellow must be!” said the former.

“I think newspapers are a regular nuisance!” said Georgie.

“All I know is, he robbed us of all we had, and if we’d informed he’d have been in Botany Bay or somewhere this minute!” said Dick, working himself up into a passion.

The extract from theTempleton Observerwhich gave rise to this duet of wrath was as follows, dated some ten days before the close of the holidays:—

The recent mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—Up to the present time nothing has been heard of theMartha, which, as our readers will remember, disappeared from the Templeton beach, on the 4th June last. The supposed clue with which the police professed to be provided has, so far, failed to bring the perpetrators of the outrage to justice; although the hope is by no means abandoned of tracing the missing lad. The matter is somewhat seriously complicated by the discovery that Thomas White, the reputed owner of the boat, was at no time its actual proprietor. TheMarthawas the joint property of White and three other men, one of them skipper of the brigJulia, and the other two well-known fishermen, of this town. It appears that an arrangement was made, whereby White should be the nominal owner of the boat, he undertaking to hand over monthly three quarters of the profits to his partners. In May last, during the absence of his other partners, White pawned theMartharepresenting her to be his sole property, and appropriated the whole proceeds of the transaction. For this act of fraud (which the recent loss of the boat and the return of its joint owners has brought to light) we understand a writ has been issued against White, and that he will be arrested immediately on his return to Templeton from his present cruise with the Fishing Fleet in the high seas.

The recent mysterious disappearance of a Templeton boat.—Up to the present time nothing has been heard of theMartha, which, as our readers will remember, disappeared from the Templeton beach, on the 4th June last. The supposed clue with which the police professed to be provided has, so far, failed to bring the perpetrators of the outrage to justice; although the hope is by no means abandoned of tracing the missing lad. The matter is somewhat seriously complicated by the discovery that Thomas White, the reputed owner of the boat, was at no time its actual proprietor. TheMarthawas the joint property of White and three other men, one of them skipper of the brigJulia, and the other two well-known fishermen, of this town. It appears that an arrangement was made, whereby White should be the nominal owner of the boat, he undertaking to hand over monthly three quarters of the profits to his partners. In May last, during the absence of his other partners, White pawned theMartharepresenting her to be his sole property, and appropriated the whole proceeds of the transaction. For this act of fraud (which the recent loss of the boat and the return of its joint owners has brought to light) we understand a writ has been issued against White, and that he will be arrested immediately on his return to Templeton from his present cruise with the Fishing Fleet in the high seas.

“Tom White’s a regular bad one,” said Dick.

“Yes. It was a jolly mean trick to pawn what didn’t belong to him.”

“The thing is, who did it belong to when we—when it got adrift?”

“The pawnbroker, I suppose,” said Heathcote. “Most likely Nash.”

“No wonder Tom White didn’t seem much cut up about losing her.”

“No; he made a good thing by it. It’s a comfort to think he’ll get nabbed at last.”

“Of course, we’ve nothing to do with his row,” said Dick.

“Of course not. We had nothing to do with pawning the boat.”

And yet, they concluded, if theMarthahad never gone adrift, no one would have known of Tom White’s fraud, and he might have been able to make money enough with her to clear himself.

It seemed unfair to rake up an old sore like this at the very beginning of the term, especially when, as they persuaded themselves, over and over again, the whole affair had very little to do with them.

“I vote we don’t look at this wretched paper any more,” said Heathcote, crumpling up the offendingObserverinto a ball, and giving it a punt across the path.

“Why not? We may as well see what becomes of Tom White,” said Dick. “Young Aspinall can fetch us up a copy once a week.”

And so one of the events of the new term was that theTempleton Observerhad a new subscriber, and increased its circulation by two new and very diligent readers.

Chapter Seventeen.The new Captain draws a straight line.Mansfield returned to Templeton like a man who knows that his work is cut out for him, and who means to do it,coûte qui coûte, as the French say.Any one else might have been afraid of the task before him, and doubtful of success. Mansfield was neither; at any rate, as far as any one else could see. He set himself up neither for a Hercules nor a Galahad. It never occurred to him what he was. But it did occur to him that Templeton wanted reform, and that the Captain of Templeton ought to reform it. And with that one clear purpose before him, Mansfield was the sort of fellow to go straight through thick and thin to reach it, or perish in the attempt.They say that when a certain Russian Emperor wanted a railway made between the two chief cities of his dominion, and was asked what route it should take, so as to benefit the largest number of intervening towns and villages, he called for a map and ruler, and drawing a straight line between the two places, said, “Let it go that way.”That was pretty much the style of Mansfield. He didn’t understand turning to right or left to give anybody a lift on the way. All he knew was that Templeton was not up to the mark, and that Templeton must be brought up to the mark. Between those points he ruled his straight line, and that way he meant to go.If the line cut a snug little set of chums in half, if it turned one or two settled school customs out of house and home, if it sent one or two waverers hopelessly over to the wrong side—well, so be it. It was a pity, especially if the innocent had to suffer with the guilty. But the good of Templeton was at stake, and woe to the traitor who thought anything more important than that!Dear old Ponty, whom Templeton had never loved so much as when it missed him, had curled his line about in snug, comfortable ins-and-outs, so as not to disturb anybody. Mansfield didn’t think himself better than Ponty, whom he loved as a brother. But Mansfield couldn’t draw curling in-and-out lines. He only knew one line, and that was a straight one; and so, for better or worse, Mansfield called for his map and his ruler, and dashed into his task.“Give the little chaps a chance,” Ponty had said, in his last will and testament, and the new Captain of Templeton was willing to make one little curve, in order to carry out his friend’s wish.On the fourth evening of the term, as the Den was assembled in full session, for the purpose of swearing in Coote and denouncing the powers that be, that honourable fraternity was startled out of its never superabundant wits by an apparition far more terrible than the Templeton Ghost.Dick was in the chair at the time, and Heathcote was in the act of moving a resolution, “That this Den considers all the monitors ought to be hanged, and hopes they will be,” when the Captain of Templeton suddenly entered the room.Then fell there a silence on the Den, like to the silence of a kennel of dogs when the whip of the master cracks! The word “hanged” died half-uttered on the lips of Heathcote, and Dick slipped aghast from his eminence. The tongue of Coote clave to the roof of his mouth, and even Gosse’s heart turned to stone in the midst of a “swop.” Never did condemned criminals stand more still, or wax-works more dumb.Mansfield closed the door behind him, and marched straight to the top of the room, where stood Dick’s vacant chair. Was he going to drive them out single-handed? Was he going to arrest their leader? Or was he going to make a speech?As soon as they perceived he was going to do neither the first nor the second, and knew he was going to do the last, they groaned. They could have endured a stampede round the Quad; they could have brought themselves to see their leader immolated in a good cause; but to have to stand still and hear Jupiter speak—what had they done to deserve that?“Look here, you youngsters,” began Mansfield, needing not even a motion of his hand to command silence, “I’ve not come as an enemy, but a friend.”“What will it be like,” mused Coote, “when he comes as an enemy?”“And I’ve only a very few words to say to you.”Was it a sigh of relief or disappointment that escaped the Den? Mansfield didn’t know; he wasn’t well up in sighs.“There’s a great deal goes on in the Den that isn’t right. Some of you youngsters think the only use of school rules is to break them, and that it’s a fine thing to disobey the monitors. You’re wrong, and, unless you give up that sort of thing, you’ll find it out. The school rules are made to be kept, and the monitors are appointed to see theyarekept; and any boy that says otherwise is an enemy to Templeton, and he will be treated accordingly. Some of you don’t approve of all that goes on here, and yet you don’t like to stand up against it. That’s not right. You can’t be neutral. If you mean to be steady, you are bound to stand out and have nothing to do with the bad lot. I want you all to understand this once for all, and not say you’ve had no warning. I warn you now. Rules are made to be kept, and you must keep them. Pontifex—”The Captain had to stop; for the Den, which had stood in breathless silence thus far, sprang, at the mention of the name, into a cheer which spoke quite as much for the tension of their own feelings at this moment as for their affection for the old Captain.Mansfield let them have it out; he liked them none the worse for their love to his friend, and what he had to say would by no means spoil by keeping till the cheers were over.They were over at last. The sight of the Captain there, tall, upright, determined, with his dark eyes bent on them, cut them short and brought the Den back to silence as deep as that which had just been broken.“Pontifex was fond of you youngsters. He said to me a day or two before he went, ‘Give the little chaps a chance.’”They could not help it; Captain or no Captain, they must cheer again. And again Mansfield waited patiently and ungrudgingly till it was over.“This is why I’ve come here to-night. You have your chance. Let everybody choose for himself, and don’t let any one say he didn’t know what to expect. There’s to be a Captain’s levée on Thursday. I don’t want any one to come to it who is not prepared to stand by Templeton rules this term. Those who are prepared will do well to show up.”So ended Jupiter’s speech to the Den. He stalked down the room and out of the door amid a solemn silence, which was not broken until his firm footsteps died away down the passage.Then the Den looked at one another as much as to say—“What do you think of that?”“Pretty warm!” said Dick, relieving the general embarrassment by speaking first.“Think he means it?” said one.“Looks like it!” said Dick, gloomily.There was a pause. The Den knew, somehow, it was no joke.It was a case of life or death, war or peace, liberty or servitude, and they hesitated on the brink.“I don’t mean to knuckle under to him!” said Heathcote, speaking with the mantle of Pledge upon him. “It’s all a dodge to curry favour with Winter.”The Den was thankful for the suggestion, and revived wonderfully under its influence.“Catch me doing more for him than for old Ponty!” cried Gosse, who had never done anything for Ponty.The reference was a popular one, and the Den took it up also. It fell to extolling Ponty to the very heavens, and abasing Mansfield to the opposite extremity, while it held up its hands in horror at the man who could seek to make the good order of Templeton the price of his favour with the Head Master.But, when the little outburst had subsided, the awkward question still remained—What was to be done?“Of course nobody will be cad enough to go to the levée after what he said,” said Heathcote, who, warmed by the admiring glances of Coote and the success of his last observation, felt called upon to speak for the assembly in general.“Rather not! You won’t go, will you, Dick?” said Pauncefote.“Don’t know,” said that hero, shortly.The Den was startled. What did Dick mean by “Don’t know”? Was he going to knuckle in after all and join the “saints?”The uncertainty had a very depressing effect on Heathcote’s enthusiasm, which had calculated all along on the countenance of his leader. Coote, too, cautiously separated himself from Gosse, who was shouting sedition at the top of his voice, and drew off to more neutral territory. Smith and Pauncefote kept up their cheers for Ponty, but gradually dropped the groans for Mansfield, and altogether the howls of the Den toned down to the roar of a sucking dove as it got whispered abroad that Dick Richardson “didn’t know.”The two days that followed were days of suspense to the Den.“Is Dick going?” was the question every one asked.“He doesn’t know,” was the invariable answer.Under these circumstances, it will be understood, but little enthusiasm could be called up over the rival toilets of the fraternity. Culver’s dress-coat had been returned to its lawful owner long since, and for that reason, if for no other, he determined not to attend. Heathcote’s choker and white gloves were the worse for wear, so he was not anxious; and Coote, whose one strong point was a watered ribbon watch-chain, was rumoured to be weak in collars, and, on the whole, not a “hot man” at all, or likely to show up.As to Dick, opinions were divided as to what he could do if he went. It was known his “dicky” had fallen off, but, on the other hand, he had brought back a pair of patent leather pumps, which might make him feel it his duty to attend.“Look here, old man,” asked Heathcote, for about the hundredth time, the evening before the levée, “are you going, or are you not?”“Don’t know,” replied Dick. “Are you?”What a question for a leader to ask his lieutenant! Dick knew it was ridiculous, but he guessed shrewdly it might choke off further inquiry. And it did.Heathcote, however, had other counsellors besides Dick, who were neither doubtful nor sparing in their advice on the great question. A hasty meeting of the “Select Sociables” was summoned, by means of Braider, that very evening, to take into consideration the action of the Club at the forthcoming levée, at which it was agreed unanimously that, after the Captain’s threat, no member of that honourable body should, on any account, show up.Heathcote held up his hand for the resolution with the others, and felt sure, in his own mind, Dick would have done the same.“Mind, nobody shows up, on any pretext,” said Spokes, as the meeting separated. “We’re on our honour, and, of course, no one mentions the Club out-of-doors.”Of course, nobody would think of such a thing.Heathcote felt a good deal concerned as the evening went on, and still no sign came from Dick. It wasn’t exactly kind to keep a fellow in suspense like this. The only thing was to take the bull by the horns, and announce whathewas going to do. Then, possibly, Dick might show his hand.“I’ve decided not to show up at the levée,” said Georgie, on the morning of the eventful day.“Have you?” said Dick, with a most provoking indifference.“Yes,” said the cunning Georgie. “I tell you what, Dick; while it’s going on, you and I can get the top court and play off our heat for the handicap. What do you say?”“Don’t know.”Whereupon, Heathcote wished that two words in the English language could be suspended, and went off to see if any comfort was going in the Den. But no.“What’s Dick going to do?” asked almost everybody.“He doesn’t know,” groaned Heathcote.Whereupon, the Den, as well as Georgie, wished ill to those two unlucky words.The morning passed, and still no ray of light illumined the doubters. Dick got twenty lines from Pledge for jumping over the geranium bed in the Quad, and knocking off a flower in the act; and every one guessed this would decide him against the levée.But at dinner-time a rumour spread, on the authority of Coote, that he had put on a clean collar since morning school, and public opinion immediately veered round to the opposite direction. No sooner, however, was dinner done than he was seen to fetch his tennis racket from his study; and once more it was surmised that he was going, after all, to play off his heat with Georgie instead of attending the ceremony. And that supposition was in turn dashed to the ground, when it was discovered that he had got the bat in order to give it to a messenger from Splicers, the racket maker, to be tightened up in the top cord.Afternoon school dragged tediously on, and the Den grew desperate. Fellows went off to dress. But what was the use of Heathcote putting on his choker, or Smith and Pauncefote parting their hairs, when they didn’t know whether they were going to the levée or not?Heathcote made one final effort to “draw” the Sphinx.“Come on,” said he, “we’ll bag the court if we are sharp, and get an hour’s quiet play.”“I’ve got no racket,” said Dick.“I say, Dick,areyou going to the levée—do tell us?”“I don’t know. What do you want to know for?”“I—I vote we don’t go,” said Georgie, coaxingly. “I’m not going.”“I know that.”“Are you?” and there was a tone of desperate pathos in the boy’s voice.“Haven’t I told you, a hundred and fifty times, Idon’t know?” replied Dick, scarcely less desperate.Heathcote gave it up, and joined the Den, who were waiting about, in anxious groups, near the door of the Hall, with their ornaments in their hands, ready to put on at a moment’s notice if necessary.Presently Dick strolled up and joined them.Hurrah! he had not got his patent leather boots on, after all! A weight fell from the minds of half the beholders as they cast their eyes down at his dusty double soles. And yet, if he wasn’t going in, what was he hanging about there for?Dick would have been very sorry if any of the Den had guessed what was passing in his mind. He didn’t know what to do. If there had been no one but himself, it wouldn’t have mattered. But there was that young ass Heathcote, and Coote too, who were certain to do as he did; and the fag of making up his mind for three people was not fair to a fellow.And yet the Ghost’s letter somehow stuck in his mind, and the ballast he had taken on board during the holidays made it harder to play pitch and toss with himself than it had been. He didn’t like the way Mansfield had almost dared them to stay away. Because, if it came to that, he would just as soon let fellows see he wasn’t going to be bullied. On the other hand, the Captain had as good as said it wanted some pluck to stand out against the rowdies, and that was an argument in favour of showing up at levee. The worst of it was, when once you showed up, you were committed to the steady lot, and couldn’t well back out. If young Heathcote—no, he was bound to look after Heathcote.So, to the amazement and consternation of the Den, after loafing about at the door for ten minutes, Dick strolled into the Hall, and made his way up to the platform.One or two, including Coote, followed him immediately. Others remained long enough to put on their cuffs and chokers, and then followed suit. One or two looked at the door, and went back again, and a few talked about treason and Rule 5.Heathcote alone was aghast and dumbfounded. For he had never seriously calculated on his leader’s decision; and, being himself under vow not to present himself, his dilemma was terrible.Perjury or treason? That was the problem he had to decide at half a minute’s notice, and it was no joke.As he watched Dick slowly advance up the room, dogged by the faithful Coote and supported by a bodyguard of loyal followers, his courage failed, and he could hardly restrain himself from rushing after him.And yet, the memory of his promise to the “Select Sociables,” and the vision of Braider watching him from a distance, held him where he was.How he wished he could have a fit, or break his arm, or have his nose bleed; anything to get him out of this hobble!But no. He saw Dick ascend the dais and shake hands with the Captain, who looked almost amiable as he spoke a few words to him. He saw Pauncefote and Smith and the other, loyal ones come in for the same greeting. He saw Coote and his watered ribbon being presented by Cartwright, and he caught sight of Pledge looking up and down the room, possibly in search of his Georgie.All this he saw, and yet could not stir. Only when he saw Dick descend the platform and slowly return towards the door, did the spell yield and permit him to escape to the Quad.There half an hour later he was found by Pledge.“Hullo, youngster; you didn’t turn up at the pantomime, then?”“No,” said Heathcote, “I didn’t want to.”“What! not want to be shaken hands with and blessed by the holy Mansfield? You naughty boy, to neglect such a short cut to peace and plenty!”“I don’t want to toady to anybody,” said Heathcote, bitterly.“Of course you don’t. But I’m afraid your courage will cost you something in impositions and detentions, and that sort of thing.”“What do I care? I’d sooner have any amount of them than be a humbug and truckle to anybody.”“Every one,” said Pledge, with an approving smile, “made sure when your friend Richardson came to do homage, that you would come too. I was quite pleased to find I knew better and was right.”“I don’t know what made Dick go,” said Heathcote.“No? Can’t you guess? Isn’t Dick a good boy, and doesn’t he always do what good boys do?”Heathcote laughed.“I don’t think he’s very much in that line.”“Well, he imitates it very well,” said Pledge, watching his man carefully, “and I’ve no doubt he will find it worth his while.”“What do you mean?” inquired Heathcote, looking up.“I mean that Mansfield is picking his men for the 3rd Football Fifteen, and I’m afraid you won’t be in it, my boy.”Heathcote said nothing, but walked on to the school door where he and his patron parted company; the latter proceeding to his study with a particularly amiable smile on his countenance; the former repairing to the adjourned meeting of the “Select Sociables,” there to hear high praises of his loyalty and steadfastness, and to partake of a very select contraband supper, which, with the questionable festivities that followed, was good for neither the body nor the soul of our unheroic young hero.

Mansfield returned to Templeton like a man who knows that his work is cut out for him, and who means to do it,coûte qui coûte, as the French say.

Any one else might have been afraid of the task before him, and doubtful of success. Mansfield was neither; at any rate, as far as any one else could see. He set himself up neither for a Hercules nor a Galahad. It never occurred to him what he was. But it did occur to him that Templeton wanted reform, and that the Captain of Templeton ought to reform it. And with that one clear purpose before him, Mansfield was the sort of fellow to go straight through thick and thin to reach it, or perish in the attempt.

They say that when a certain Russian Emperor wanted a railway made between the two chief cities of his dominion, and was asked what route it should take, so as to benefit the largest number of intervening towns and villages, he called for a map and ruler, and drawing a straight line between the two places, said, “Let it go that way.”

That was pretty much the style of Mansfield. He didn’t understand turning to right or left to give anybody a lift on the way. All he knew was that Templeton was not up to the mark, and that Templeton must be brought up to the mark. Between those points he ruled his straight line, and that way he meant to go.

If the line cut a snug little set of chums in half, if it turned one or two settled school customs out of house and home, if it sent one or two waverers hopelessly over to the wrong side—well, so be it. It was a pity, especially if the innocent had to suffer with the guilty. But the good of Templeton was at stake, and woe to the traitor who thought anything more important than that!

Dear old Ponty, whom Templeton had never loved so much as when it missed him, had curled his line about in snug, comfortable ins-and-outs, so as not to disturb anybody. Mansfield didn’t think himself better than Ponty, whom he loved as a brother. But Mansfield couldn’t draw curling in-and-out lines. He only knew one line, and that was a straight one; and so, for better or worse, Mansfield called for his map and his ruler, and dashed into his task.

“Give the little chaps a chance,” Ponty had said, in his last will and testament, and the new Captain of Templeton was willing to make one little curve, in order to carry out his friend’s wish.

On the fourth evening of the term, as the Den was assembled in full session, for the purpose of swearing in Coote and denouncing the powers that be, that honourable fraternity was startled out of its never superabundant wits by an apparition far more terrible than the Templeton Ghost.

Dick was in the chair at the time, and Heathcote was in the act of moving a resolution, “That this Den considers all the monitors ought to be hanged, and hopes they will be,” when the Captain of Templeton suddenly entered the room.

Then fell there a silence on the Den, like to the silence of a kennel of dogs when the whip of the master cracks! The word “hanged” died half-uttered on the lips of Heathcote, and Dick slipped aghast from his eminence. The tongue of Coote clave to the roof of his mouth, and even Gosse’s heart turned to stone in the midst of a “swop.” Never did condemned criminals stand more still, or wax-works more dumb.

Mansfield closed the door behind him, and marched straight to the top of the room, where stood Dick’s vacant chair. Was he going to drive them out single-handed? Was he going to arrest their leader? Or was he going to make a speech?

As soon as they perceived he was going to do neither the first nor the second, and knew he was going to do the last, they groaned. They could have endured a stampede round the Quad; they could have brought themselves to see their leader immolated in a good cause; but to have to stand still and hear Jupiter speak—what had they done to deserve that?

“Look here, you youngsters,” began Mansfield, needing not even a motion of his hand to command silence, “I’ve not come as an enemy, but a friend.”

“What will it be like,” mused Coote, “when he comes as an enemy?”

“And I’ve only a very few words to say to you.”

Was it a sigh of relief or disappointment that escaped the Den? Mansfield didn’t know; he wasn’t well up in sighs.

“There’s a great deal goes on in the Den that isn’t right. Some of you youngsters think the only use of school rules is to break them, and that it’s a fine thing to disobey the monitors. You’re wrong, and, unless you give up that sort of thing, you’ll find it out. The school rules are made to be kept, and the monitors are appointed to see theyarekept; and any boy that says otherwise is an enemy to Templeton, and he will be treated accordingly. Some of you don’t approve of all that goes on here, and yet you don’t like to stand up against it. That’s not right. You can’t be neutral. If you mean to be steady, you are bound to stand out and have nothing to do with the bad lot. I want you all to understand this once for all, and not say you’ve had no warning. I warn you now. Rules are made to be kept, and you must keep them. Pontifex—”

The Captain had to stop; for the Den, which had stood in breathless silence thus far, sprang, at the mention of the name, into a cheer which spoke quite as much for the tension of their own feelings at this moment as for their affection for the old Captain.

Mansfield let them have it out; he liked them none the worse for their love to his friend, and what he had to say would by no means spoil by keeping till the cheers were over.

They were over at last. The sight of the Captain there, tall, upright, determined, with his dark eyes bent on them, cut them short and brought the Den back to silence as deep as that which had just been broken.

“Pontifex was fond of you youngsters. He said to me a day or two before he went, ‘Give the little chaps a chance.’”

They could not help it; Captain or no Captain, they must cheer again. And again Mansfield waited patiently and ungrudgingly till it was over.

“This is why I’ve come here to-night. You have your chance. Let everybody choose for himself, and don’t let any one say he didn’t know what to expect. There’s to be a Captain’s levée on Thursday. I don’t want any one to come to it who is not prepared to stand by Templeton rules this term. Those who are prepared will do well to show up.”

So ended Jupiter’s speech to the Den. He stalked down the room and out of the door amid a solemn silence, which was not broken until his firm footsteps died away down the passage.

Then the Den looked at one another as much as to say—

“What do you think of that?”

“Pretty warm!” said Dick, relieving the general embarrassment by speaking first.

“Think he means it?” said one.

“Looks like it!” said Dick, gloomily.

There was a pause. The Den knew, somehow, it was no joke.

It was a case of life or death, war or peace, liberty or servitude, and they hesitated on the brink.

“I don’t mean to knuckle under to him!” said Heathcote, speaking with the mantle of Pledge upon him. “It’s all a dodge to curry favour with Winter.”

The Den was thankful for the suggestion, and revived wonderfully under its influence.

“Catch me doing more for him than for old Ponty!” cried Gosse, who had never done anything for Ponty.

The reference was a popular one, and the Den took it up also. It fell to extolling Ponty to the very heavens, and abasing Mansfield to the opposite extremity, while it held up its hands in horror at the man who could seek to make the good order of Templeton the price of his favour with the Head Master.

But, when the little outburst had subsided, the awkward question still remained—What was to be done?

“Of course nobody will be cad enough to go to the levée after what he said,” said Heathcote, who, warmed by the admiring glances of Coote and the success of his last observation, felt called upon to speak for the assembly in general.

“Rather not! You won’t go, will you, Dick?” said Pauncefote.

“Don’t know,” said that hero, shortly.

The Den was startled. What did Dick mean by “Don’t know”? Was he going to knuckle in after all and join the “saints?”

The uncertainty had a very depressing effect on Heathcote’s enthusiasm, which had calculated all along on the countenance of his leader. Coote, too, cautiously separated himself from Gosse, who was shouting sedition at the top of his voice, and drew off to more neutral territory. Smith and Pauncefote kept up their cheers for Ponty, but gradually dropped the groans for Mansfield, and altogether the howls of the Den toned down to the roar of a sucking dove as it got whispered abroad that Dick Richardson “didn’t know.”

The two days that followed were days of suspense to the Den.

“Is Dick going?” was the question every one asked.

“He doesn’t know,” was the invariable answer.

Under these circumstances, it will be understood, but little enthusiasm could be called up over the rival toilets of the fraternity. Culver’s dress-coat had been returned to its lawful owner long since, and for that reason, if for no other, he determined not to attend. Heathcote’s choker and white gloves were the worse for wear, so he was not anxious; and Coote, whose one strong point was a watered ribbon watch-chain, was rumoured to be weak in collars, and, on the whole, not a “hot man” at all, or likely to show up.

As to Dick, opinions were divided as to what he could do if he went. It was known his “dicky” had fallen off, but, on the other hand, he had brought back a pair of patent leather pumps, which might make him feel it his duty to attend.

“Look here, old man,” asked Heathcote, for about the hundredth time, the evening before the levée, “are you going, or are you not?”

“Don’t know,” replied Dick. “Are you?”

What a question for a leader to ask his lieutenant! Dick knew it was ridiculous, but he guessed shrewdly it might choke off further inquiry. And it did.

Heathcote, however, had other counsellors besides Dick, who were neither doubtful nor sparing in their advice on the great question. A hasty meeting of the “Select Sociables” was summoned, by means of Braider, that very evening, to take into consideration the action of the Club at the forthcoming levée, at which it was agreed unanimously that, after the Captain’s threat, no member of that honourable body should, on any account, show up.

Heathcote held up his hand for the resolution with the others, and felt sure, in his own mind, Dick would have done the same.

“Mind, nobody shows up, on any pretext,” said Spokes, as the meeting separated. “We’re on our honour, and, of course, no one mentions the Club out-of-doors.”

Of course, nobody would think of such a thing.

Heathcote felt a good deal concerned as the evening went on, and still no sign came from Dick. It wasn’t exactly kind to keep a fellow in suspense like this. The only thing was to take the bull by the horns, and announce whathewas going to do. Then, possibly, Dick might show his hand.

“I’ve decided not to show up at the levée,” said Georgie, on the morning of the eventful day.

“Have you?” said Dick, with a most provoking indifference.

“Yes,” said the cunning Georgie. “I tell you what, Dick; while it’s going on, you and I can get the top court and play off our heat for the handicap. What do you say?”

“Don’t know.”

Whereupon, Heathcote wished that two words in the English language could be suspended, and went off to see if any comfort was going in the Den. But no.

“What’s Dick going to do?” asked almost everybody.

“He doesn’t know,” groaned Heathcote.

Whereupon, the Den, as well as Georgie, wished ill to those two unlucky words.

The morning passed, and still no ray of light illumined the doubters. Dick got twenty lines from Pledge for jumping over the geranium bed in the Quad, and knocking off a flower in the act; and every one guessed this would decide him against the levée.

But at dinner-time a rumour spread, on the authority of Coote, that he had put on a clean collar since morning school, and public opinion immediately veered round to the opposite direction. No sooner, however, was dinner done than he was seen to fetch his tennis racket from his study; and once more it was surmised that he was going, after all, to play off his heat with Georgie instead of attending the ceremony. And that supposition was in turn dashed to the ground, when it was discovered that he had got the bat in order to give it to a messenger from Splicers, the racket maker, to be tightened up in the top cord.

Afternoon school dragged tediously on, and the Den grew desperate. Fellows went off to dress. But what was the use of Heathcote putting on his choker, or Smith and Pauncefote parting their hairs, when they didn’t know whether they were going to the levée or not?

Heathcote made one final effort to “draw” the Sphinx.

“Come on,” said he, “we’ll bag the court if we are sharp, and get an hour’s quiet play.”

“I’ve got no racket,” said Dick.

“I say, Dick,areyou going to the levée—do tell us?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to know for?”

“I—I vote we don’t go,” said Georgie, coaxingly. “I’m not going.”

“I know that.”

“Are you?” and there was a tone of desperate pathos in the boy’s voice.

“Haven’t I told you, a hundred and fifty times, Idon’t know?” replied Dick, scarcely less desperate.

Heathcote gave it up, and joined the Den, who were waiting about, in anxious groups, near the door of the Hall, with their ornaments in their hands, ready to put on at a moment’s notice if necessary.

Presently Dick strolled up and joined them.

Hurrah! he had not got his patent leather boots on, after all! A weight fell from the minds of half the beholders as they cast their eyes down at his dusty double soles. And yet, if he wasn’t going in, what was he hanging about there for?

Dick would have been very sorry if any of the Den had guessed what was passing in his mind. He didn’t know what to do. If there had been no one but himself, it wouldn’t have mattered. But there was that young ass Heathcote, and Coote too, who were certain to do as he did; and the fag of making up his mind for three people was not fair to a fellow.

And yet the Ghost’s letter somehow stuck in his mind, and the ballast he had taken on board during the holidays made it harder to play pitch and toss with himself than it had been. He didn’t like the way Mansfield had almost dared them to stay away. Because, if it came to that, he would just as soon let fellows see he wasn’t going to be bullied. On the other hand, the Captain had as good as said it wanted some pluck to stand out against the rowdies, and that was an argument in favour of showing up at levee. The worst of it was, when once you showed up, you were committed to the steady lot, and couldn’t well back out. If young Heathcote—no, he was bound to look after Heathcote.

So, to the amazement and consternation of the Den, after loafing about at the door for ten minutes, Dick strolled into the Hall, and made his way up to the platform.

One or two, including Coote, followed him immediately. Others remained long enough to put on their cuffs and chokers, and then followed suit. One or two looked at the door, and went back again, and a few talked about treason and Rule 5.

Heathcote alone was aghast and dumbfounded. For he had never seriously calculated on his leader’s decision; and, being himself under vow not to present himself, his dilemma was terrible.

Perjury or treason? That was the problem he had to decide at half a minute’s notice, and it was no joke.

As he watched Dick slowly advance up the room, dogged by the faithful Coote and supported by a bodyguard of loyal followers, his courage failed, and he could hardly restrain himself from rushing after him.

And yet, the memory of his promise to the “Select Sociables,” and the vision of Braider watching him from a distance, held him where he was.

How he wished he could have a fit, or break his arm, or have his nose bleed; anything to get him out of this hobble!

But no. He saw Dick ascend the dais and shake hands with the Captain, who looked almost amiable as he spoke a few words to him. He saw Pauncefote and Smith and the other, loyal ones come in for the same greeting. He saw Coote and his watered ribbon being presented by Cartwright, and he caught sight of Pledge looking up and down the room, possibly in search of his Georgie.

All this he saw, and yet could not stir. Only when he saw Dick descend the platform and slowly return towards the door, did the spell yield and permit him to escape to the Quad.

There half an hour later he was found by Pledge.

“Hullo, youngster; you didn’t turn up at the pantomime, then?”

“No,” said Heathcote, “I didn’t want to.”

“What! not want to be shaken hands with and blessed by the holy Mansfield? You naughty boy, to neglect such a short cut to peace and plenty!”

“I don’t want to toady to anybody,” said Heathcote, bitterly.

“Of course you don’t. But I’m afraid your courage will cost you something in impositions and detentions, and that sort of thing.”

“What do I care? I’d sooner have any amount of them than be a humbug and truckle to anybody.”

“Every one,” said Pledge, with an approving smile, “made sure when your friend Richardson came to do homage, that you would come too. I was quite pleased to find I knew better and was right.”

“I don’t know what made Dick go,” said Heathcote.

“No? Can’t you guess? Isn’t Dick a good boy, and doesn’t he always do what good boys do?”

Heathcote laughed.

“I don’t think he’s very much in that line.”

“Well, he imitates it very well,” said Pledge, watching his man carefully, “and I’ve no doubt he will find it worth his while.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Heathcote, looking up.

“I mean that Mansfield is picking his men for the 3rd Football Fifteen, and I’m afraid you won’t be in it, my boy.”

Heathcote said nothing, but walked on to the school door where he and his patron parted company; the latter proceeding to his study with a particularly amiable smile on his countenance; the former repairing to the adjourned meeting of the “Select Sociables,” there to hear high praises of his loyalty and steadfastness, and to partake of a very select contraband supper, which, with the questionable festivities that followed, was good for neither the body nor the soul of our unheroic young hero.

Chapter Eighteen.Dick conspires to defeat the ends of Justice.Dick, on quitting the Captain’s levée, retired in anything but exalted spirits to Cresswell’s study.He didn’t care to face the Den that evening. Not that he was afraid of Rule 5, or cared a snap what anybody there had to say about his conduct. But he wasn’t sure himself whether he had made a mistake or not. He hated being in a corner. He had no natural antipathy to doing what was right, but he didn’t like being pinned down to it. He didn’t go to the levée because he was desperately in love with law and order, and it was a shame for any one to suppose he had. He went because he knew Heathcote was waiting to see what he did. And now, after all, Heathcote had deserted his colours and not gone.It was enough to make any one testy, and Aspinall, had he known it, would have been less surprised than he was to have his head almost snapped off as the two fellow-fags sat at work in their senior’s study that evening.“Can’t you do your work without groaning like that?” said Dick, when the small boy, for about the fiftieth time, stumbled over his hexameters.“I beg your pardon,” said Aspinall, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”“Who said you did?” retorted poor Dick, longing for a quarrel with some one. “What’s the use of flaring up like that?”“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry if I—”“There you go. Why can’t you swear straight out instead of mumbling? I can’t hear what you say.”“I beg your pardon, Dick.”“Shut up, and get on with your work, and don’t make such a noise.”After that the wretched Aspinall hardly dared dip his pen in the ink, or turn over a page, for fear of disturbing his badger companion. It was a relief when presently Cresswell entered and gave him a chance of escape.“Well, youngster,” said the senior, when he and Dick were left alone, “I’m glad you had the sense to turn up at the levée.”“I’m sorry I did,” said Dick, shortly.Cresswell knew his man too well to be taken aback by the contradiction.“Yes? Is the Den going to lick you for it?”“I’d like to see them try,” said Dick, half viciously.“So would I,” said the senior, laughing.“Mansfield will be trying to make out I’ve promised to back him up,” said Dick.Cresswell laughed.“By Jove! hewillbe cut up when he finds you aren’t. He’ll resign.”Dick coloured up, and looked a little foolish. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.“No very dreadful thing if you did back him up, eh?” said the monitor, casually. “It might disgust some of your friends in the Den, but you aren’t obliged to toady to them.”“Rather not,” said Dick.“Besides, a fellow may sometimes do what’s right and not be an utter cad. Perhaps you don’t think so, though. You’d cut a nobler figure, wouldn’t you, dragging down your chums from one row to another, than by anything so paltry as doing right because it is right? I quite understand that feeling.”“Why do you talk to me like that?” said Dick, feeling a sting in every word of the senior’s speech. “You think I went to the levée to please myself. I didn’t.”“And is that why you are sorry you went? Don’t make yourself out worse than you are, Dick. You’ve done a plucky thing for once in a way, and got yourself into a row with the Den, and I really don’t see that you have very much to reproach yourself with.”“I don’t care a farthing for the Den,” said Dick.“But you do for yourself. If I were you, I wouldn’t let myself be floored by one reverse. Stick to your man, and you’ll get him out of the hands of the Philistines after all.”This little talk did Dick good, and cleared his mind. It put things in a new light. It recalled the Ghost’s letter, and brought up in array once more the better resolutions that appeal had awakened. What was the use of his setting up as an example to his friends, when he was little better than a rowdy himself? Yes; Dick Richardson must be looked to. How, and by whom?“Dominat qui in se dominatur,” said Dick to himself, as he went off to bed, and closed a very uncomfortable and critical day.When he went to call Cresswell next morning he found him already up and dressed.“Ah, youngster, before you to-day! Have you forgotten it’s a holiday?”“So it is,” said Dick, who, in his troubles, had actually overlooked the fact.“What do you say to coming with Freckleton and me for a day’s fishing in the Bay? Winter has given us leave if we keep inside the Sprit Rock, and I expect he’d let you come if I asked him.”“I’d like it frightfully,” said Dick, glowing with pleasure at the invitation.“All right. Set to work with the sandwiches. Make as many as the potted meat will allow, and get the matron to boil half-a-dozen eggs hard. I’ll see Winter after chapel about you, and if it’s all square we’ll start directly after breakfast.”Dick went into raptures over the making of those sandwiches. Fishing was one of his great weaknesses, and a day of it, in such lovely weather as this, and in such distinguished company, was a treat out of the ordinary. The one drawback was that neither Heathcote nor Coote was in it. That, however, could not be helped; and he decided that, under the circumstances, it would be kindest not to tell them about it or raise their regrets.After chapel he made straight for Cresswell’s study and waited with some anxiety the result of his senior’s application to the Head Master.In due time Cresswell returned.“All serene,” said he. “He didn’t much fancy it, I think; but I undertook to be responsible for you.”It occurred to Dick that he didn’t see why he couldn’t be responsible for himself; but he was too anxious not to mar the expedition, to raise any protest on behalf of his own independence.“Take this can,” said Cresswell, “and go down as quick as you can to Green’s, next door to the ‘Dolphin,’ and tell him to fill it with worms for me, and bring them down to the beach. We’re going to have Tug’s boat, and we’ll be there in half-an-hour, so look alive.”Dick, rather thankful to be able to get off unobserved, hurried off on his savoury errand. He had scarcely once gone down town since the affair of Tom White’s boat, and certainly not since the alarming paragraphs in theObserverhad taken to appearing. But he comforted himself with the reflection that Tom was at present on the high seas, and that no one else appeared to have any suspicion which would connect him (Dick) with the mysterious lad who had been seen on the Strand on the eventful night last June.For all that, he dawdled not a moment longer than he could help. Green had the worms ready.“So you’re going for a day’s sport, are you?” said he. “It’s a good day, too, and the whiting ought to be plentiful off the rock.”“I hope they will,” said Dick.“They’ve been let alone the last week or two,” said the bait merchant, “since our chaps have been out in the deep, so you’ve a fair chance.”“When will the boats be back?” asked Dick, rather nervously.“We should have seen some of them this morning, but the wind’s dropped. Maybe it will be afternoon before they come in.”“It’s always a great day when they come in, isn’t it?” asked the boy.“Depends on the catch. When it’s a bad catch no one cares to see them back.”Dick tried hard to keep down his next question, but it had a sort of fascination for him, and he could not smother it.“I suppose,” said he in the most careless tones he could assume, “Tom White’s not likely to come back in a hurry?”Green laughed. He was no friend of the double-dealing mariner.“Not if he knows who’s a-going to be down on the beach to welcome him. But, bless you, how’s he to know? The sooner he comes home and gets his right lodgings, the better, so say I. What do you say, young squire?”The “young squire” did not exactly know what to say, and took up his can of worms to depart, with something like precipitation.He found Cresswell and Freckleton waiting for him down at the boat. Until this moment he had never seen the Templeton Hermit, except occasionally at a distance; and he glanced with some curiosity at the face of the fellow who had beaten Pledge for the Bishop’s Scholarship. He didn’t altogether dislike him. The stolid face and bright black eyes of the Hermit made him a little uncomfortable, but there was an occasional twitch at the corners of his mouth, and a music, when he chose to use it, in his voice, which reconciled the junior to his presence, and even interested him in the disposal of his new patron’s good graces.It didn’t take long to get “all aboard.” The precious worms were safely deposited in the hold, the three lines were stowed away under the seat, and the basket containing the sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs added ballast to the bows. Cresswell, who had an idea of doing things comfortably, had brought his ulster and made Freckleton bring his. The latter had armed himself also with a Shakespeare in case the fish didn’t bite; and three towels, knowingly produced by the whipper-in, added a further pleasant suggestion for whiling away a dull half-hour.The calmness of the day and the absence of any sign of wind induced the party to vote the mast and sails a useless encumbrance, and they were accordingly left ashore, and a spare pair of oars taken in their place. The irony of fate left it to Dick’s lot to see the anchor was in proper trim and firmly secured—a task which he discharged with almost vicious solemnity.“What time does the tide turn, Joe?” asked Cresswell of the boatman as they ran the boat down to the water.“Half-past two about, mister. Yer’ll need to bring her in close ashore and give the Fiddle-sand a wide berth while the tide flows.”“All right. Shove her off, Joe.”They had a glorious day. The sea had scarcely a ripple, and the sky scarcely a cloud. The fish seemed to vie with one another in falling upon the bait. The view of Templeton from the sea was perfect, and the sharp outline of the Sprit Rock above them was grandeur itself.Dick, as he lolled over the side of the boat, slowly hauling up his line and speculating whether he had got two fish on each hook or only one, felt supremely at peace with himself and all the world. The sandwiches had been delicious, Cresswell and Freckleton had treated him like a lord, the pile of fish on the floor of the boat was worthy of a professional crew, the light breeze was just enough to keep the sun in his place, and the sofa he had made for himself with Freckleton’s ulster in the bows was like a feather bed. Dick loved the world and everything in it, and when Cresswell said, “Walk into those sandwiches, young ’un,” he really thought life the sweetest task in which mortal can engage.Cresswell and Freckleton were scarcely more proof against the luxury of the morning. They chatted in a sort of sleepy undertone, as if they knew all Nature was taking a nap and didn’t want to be disturbed.“How did you think old Jupiter got through levée?” asked Cresswell.“Well, for those who wish him well,” said the Hermit.“Ah, he’s an uphill job before him, and I fancy he knows it. If he ever is down in the mouth, I think he was so last night after it was all over.”“I thought so too,” said Freckleton; “that is, I shouldn’t call it down in the mouth. He had headache; that’s about the same thing.”“He’s staked high. No one else would have dared to challenge the whole school in the way he did,” said Cresswell, dropping his voice, but still, in the quiet air, not quite beyond Dick’s hearing.“It answered; it brought the right fellows to the front.”“And shut the wrong fellows hopelessly out?”“I hope not. Many of them are only fools. They think it’s plucky to defy the powers that be, and quite forget it’s pluckier to defy themselves.”“That’s a neat way of putting it, old man!”“There’s a big bite this time!” said the Hermit.So there was—three fish on two hooks, and it was some time before the diversion was disposed of.“It’s a pity every one can’t be made to see he’s his own worst enemy; it would simplify matters awfully. If a youngster got it into his head that it wanted more pluck to go against himself than all the Templeton rules put together, we should get some surprises!”“No chance of that, I’m afraid, while there are fellows like Pledge, who make it a business to drag youngsters down.”“You may say so. I should say there’s not a youngster in Templeton in greater peril at this moment than Pledge’s fag, and the worst of it is there is no one to help him.”Dick suddenly felt his sofa uncomfortable. The boards underneath cramped him; the sun, too, for some reason or other, became too hot, and the breeze fidgeted him; the last sandwich he had eaten had had too much mustard in it; he was getting fagged of fishing.Although the talk of the two seniors had not been intended for his ears, it had been impossible for him to avoid overhearing it, even if he had tried, which he had not, and the Hermit’s last words had stung him to the quick and spoilt his enjoyment.“What’s the matter, youngster?” asked Cresswell. “Getting sea-sick?”“No,” replied Dick, trying to compose himself.“What do you say to a header?”Dick was stripped in half a minute. Anything for a change. And what change more delightful than a plunge in the lovely green sea?The seniors smiled at his hurry, as they proceeded in a more leisurely fashion to follow his example.“Don’t wait for us; over you go,” said Cresswell, “and tell old Neptune we are coming.”Dick waited for no further invitation, and sprang from the gunwale. They watched the spreading circles that tracked his dive, and marked the white shining streak as it darted past, under the water.“He’ll be a shark, before long,” said Cresswell. “Look at the distance he’s dived.”“He has to thank the tide for part of this, though,” said Freckleton, looking at his watch. “Why, it’s—”An exclamation from Cresswell stopped him. Dick had reappeared, but he was twenty yards at least astern of the boat, and drifting back every moment.At first he did not seem to be aware of it; but, treading water, waved one hand exultantly to celebrate his long dive.But when he began to swim, leisurely at first, but harder presently, he suddenly realised his position, and saw that instead of making way back to the boat, he was losing distance at every stroke.Some of my readers may have been in a similar position, and know the horror of helplessness which, for a moment, comes over the swimmer at such a time. Dick was not given to panic, still less fear, but, for all that, the minute which ensued was one of the most terrible in his life.At certain times of the tide, the current between the Sprit Rock and the long Fiddle-Sandbank rushed like a mill-race. The boys knew this; they had been reminded of it at starting. But the morning had passed so quickly that, until Dick had taken his header, and they saw him swept astern, it had never occurredto one of them that it could possibly be three o’clock. Freckleton was the first to see the danger, and almost as soon as Dick appeared above water, he flung off his coat and boots, and saying to Cresswell, “Come quick with the boat,” plunged into the water.He was soon at Dick’s side; not to support him, for the boy was able to do that for himself, but to encourage him to keep cool, and not waste his strength in endeavouring to stem the tide. And Dick had sense enough to take the advice, and tread water quietly till the boat should come.It seemed a long time coming. The anchor was fast in the bottom, and it wanted all Cresswell’s strength to get it up. Indeed he would have been tempted to simplify matters by cutting the cord, had he had a knife at hand.By the time it was free, the boys were almost a quarter of a mile away, and getting weary. But once free, their suspense was not prolonged. Cresswell bore quickly down upon them, and picked them up; and rarely did three friends breathe more freely than when they all stood once more on the floor of their boat.There was no speech-making or wringing of hands, no bragging, no compliments. They knew one another too well for that, and dressed in silence, much as if the adventure had been an ordinary incident of an ordinary bathe.“It strikes me,” said Cresswell, who still had the oars out, “it will take us all our time to get back. Are you ready to take an oar, old man?”Short as the time had been—indeed the whole incident had not occupied much more than five minutes—the boat was about a mile below her old moorings, and still in the rush of the current.It was little the two rowers could do to keep her head up, much less to make any way; and finally it became clear that if they were to get back to Templeton at all that day, they must either anchor where they were, for six hours, with the risk of their rope not holding in the Race, or else let the current take them out to the open, and then make a long row back outside the Sprit, and clear of the Fiddle Bank.They decided on the latter, and somewhat gloomily rested on their oars, and watched the backward sweep of the boat on the tide seaward.The square tower of Templeton had become a mere speck on the coast-line, before they felt the tide under them relax, and knew they were out of the Race.Then they manned their oars, and began their long pull home. Fortunately the water still remained quiet, and the breeze did not freshen. But after about a mile had been made, and the Sprit Rock seemed only midway between them and the shore, a peril still more serious overtook them. The sky became overcast, and a sea mist, springing from nowhere, came down on the breeze, blotting out first the horizon, then the rock, and finally the coast, and leaving them virtually blindfolded in mid-ocean.“We may as well anchor, and wait till it clears,” said Cresswell.“I think we might go on slowly,” said Freckleton. “If we keep the breeze on our left, and Dick looks sharp out in front, we are bound to come either on the Sprit or the shore. Try it for a bit.”So they tried; rowing gingerly, and steering by the breeze on their cheeks, while Dick, ahead, strained his eyes into the soaking mist.They may have made another mile, and still the mist wrapped them round. They had no idea where, they were. They might be close to the Rock, or they might have drifted down the coast, or they might be coming on to the Race again.Still, anything seemed better than lying idle, and they paddled steadily on, hoping against hope for a single glimpse of daylight through the veil.Suddenly Dick held his hand above his head, and shouted—“Easy! Hold hard!”And they could just see a dark object ahead on the water.It couldn’t be the rock, for it was too small; and they could hardly imagine it to be part of the pier, or a boat on the beach.They shouted; and, in a moment, an answer came, “Ahoy, there!” and they knew they had come upon a fishing-boat at anchor.“It’s one of the fleet, waiting to get in. We’d better go alongside, and wait with them,” said Freckleton.So Dick shouted to say they were coming, and they rowed carefully alongside.The first sight that met Dick’s astonished eyes, as he reached across to seize the gunwale of the friendly boat, was Tom White, sitting comfortably smoking in the stern.“Good day, young gentlemen,” said that worthy. “Can’t keep away from us, can’t yer?”“Hullo, Tom! We’ve lost our way in the mist,” said Cresswell. “Where are we?”“Reckon you’re in the bay, and a swim to the pierhead.”“So near! We made sure we were outside the Sprit. How long have you been here?”“Come here when the tide turned, we did,” said Tom, “with a boat full, and no mistake. Say, young gentlemen, you ain’t forgot the poor mariner that lost his boat, have yer? It’s cruel hard to lose your living and have to begin afresh.”“If you mean you want a shilling for piloting us ashore,” said Cresswell, “here you are. Will you take us, or will your mate?”Dick grew uncomfortable, and, under pretence of wanting to examine some of the fish on the floor of the lugger, he scrambled up the side, and got in.“Come back, Dick; do you hear?” called Cresswell. “We must go back if one of those fellows will run us in. Will you come, Tom?”Visions of the bar-parlour of the “Dolphin” hovered before Tom’s mind as he looked down at the speaker and the shilling that lay in his hand.He was just about to consent, when he felt his arm nudged by Dick, who was crouching down over the fish at his feet.“Tom White,” said the boy, looking up nervously, “don’t go ashore. They are going to arrest you for pawning that boat that didn’t belong to you. Tell your mate to see us ashore. There’s another shilling for you!”Tom took his pipe out of his mouth and gaped at the boy. Then he slowly pocketed the shilling. Then he relieved himself of an oath. Then he called his mate—“Jerry, see the squires ashore.”With fluttering heart Dick scrambled back into the boat, followed by the hulking Jerry, who, in a very few minutes, ran them comfortably on to the beach, and made an end of all their perils for that day.They reached Templeton just in time for call over; and no one knew, as they walked into Chapel that evening, through what adventures they had passed since they left Templeton in the morning.Early next morning Dick could not resist the temptation of going down to call on Mr Green.“Well, did the boats all come in?” he inquired.“All, bar Tom White’s. And they do say it will be long enough before any one sees him in these parts again. He’s got wind somehow. It’s wonderful the way news travels on water—so it is.”

Dick, on quitting the Captain’s levée, retired in anything but exalted spirits to Cresswell’s study.

He didn’t care to face the Den that evening. Not that he was afraid of Rule 5, or cared a snap what anybody there had to say about his conduct. But he wasn’t sure himself whether he had made a mistake or not. He hated being in a corner. He had no natural antipathy to doing what was right, but he didn’t like being pinned down to it. He didn’t go to the levée because he was desperately in love with law and order, and it was a shame for any one to suppose he had. He went because he knew Heathcote was waiting to see what he did. And now, after all, Heathcote had deserted his colours and not gone.

It was enough to make any one testy, and Aspinall, had he known it, would have been less surprised than he was to have his head almost snapped off as the two fellow-fags sat at work in their senior’s study that evening.

“Can’t you do your work without groaning like that?” said Dick, when the small boy, for about the fiftieth time, stumbled over his hexameters.

“I beg your pardon,” said Aspinall, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Who said you did?” retorted poor Dick, longing for a quarrel with some one. “What’s the use of flaring up like that?”

“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry if I—”

“There you go. Why can’t you swear straight out instead of mumbling? I can’t hear what you say.”

“I beg your pardon, Dick.”

“Shut up, and get on with your work, and don’t make such a noise.”

After that the wretched Aspinall hardly dared dip his pen in the ink, or turn over a page, for fear of disturbing his badger companion. It was a relief when presently Cresswell entered and gave him a chance of escape.

“Well, youngster,” said the senior, when he and Dick were left alone, “I’m glad you had the sense to turn up at the levée.”

“I’m sorry I did,” said Dick, shortly.

Cresswell knew his man too well to be taken aback by the contradiction.

“Yes? Is the Den going to lick you for it?”

“I’d like to see them try,” said Dick, half viciously.

“So would I,” said the senior, laughing.

“Mansfield will be trying to make out I’ve promised to back him up,” said Dick.

Cresswell laughed.

“By Jove! hewillbe cut up when he finds you aren’t. He’ll resign.”

Dick coloured up, and looked a little foolish. “I didn’t mean that,” he said.

“No very dreadful thing if you did back him up, eh?” said the monitor, casually. “It might disgust some of your friends in the Den, but you aren’t obliged to toady to them.”

“Rather not,” said Dick.

“Besides, a fellow may sometimes do what’s right and not be an utter cad. Perhaps you don’t think so, though. You’d cut a nobler figure, wouldn’t you, dragging down your chums from one row to another, than by anything so paltry as doing right because it is right? I quite understand that feeling.”

“Why do you talk to me like that?” said Dick, feeling a sting in every word of the senior’s speech. “You think I went to the levée to please myself. I didn’t.”

“And is that why you are sorry you went? Don’t make yourself out worse than you are, Dick. You’ve done a plucky thing for once in a way, and got yourself into a row with the Den, and I really don’t see that you have very much to reproach yourself with.”

“I don’t care a farthing for the Den,” said Dick.

“But you do for yourself. If I were you, I wouldn’t let myself be floored by one reverse. Stick to your man, and you’ll get him out of the hands of the Philistines after all.”

This little talk did Dick good, and cleared his mind. It put things in a new light. It recalled the Ghost’s letter, and brought up in array once more the better resolutions that appeal had awakened. What was the use of his setting up as an example to his friends, when he was little better than a rowdy himself? Yes; Dick Richardson must be looked to. How, and by whom?

“Dominat qui in se dominatur,” said Dick to himself, as he went off to bed, and closed a very uncomfortable and critical day.

When he went to call Cresswell next morning he found him already up and dressed.

“Ah, youngster, before you to-day! Have you forgotten it’s a holiday?”

“So it is,” said Dick, who, in his troubles, had actually overlooked the fact.

“What do you say to coming with Freckleton and me for a day’s fishing in the Bay? Winter has given us leave if we keep inside the Sprit Rock, and I expect he’d let you come if I asked him.”

“I’d like it frightfully,” said Dick, glowing with pleasure at the invitation.

“All right. Set to work with the sandwiches. Make as many as the potted meat will allow, and get the matron to boil half-a-dozen eggs hard. I’ll see Winter after chapel about you, and if it’s all square we’ll start directly after breakfast.”

Dick went into raptures over the making of those sandwiches. Fishing was one of his great weaknesses, and a day of it, in such lovely weather as this, and in such distinguished company, was a treat out of the ordinary. The one drawback was that neither Heathcote nor Coote was in it. That, however, could not be helped; and he decided that, under the circumstances, it would be kindest not to tell them about it or raise their regrets.

After chapel he made straight for Cresswell’s study and waited with some anxiety the result of his senior’s application to the Head Master.

In due time Cresswell returned.

“All serene,” said he. “He didn’t much fancy it, I think; but I undertook to be responsible for you.”

It occurred to Dick that he didn’t see why he couldn’t be responsible for himself; but he was too anxious not to mar the expedition, to raise any protest on behalf of his own independence.

“Take this can,” said Cresswell, “and go down as quick as you can to Green’s, next door to the ‘Dolphin,’ and tell him to fill it with worms for me, and bring them down to the beach. We’re going to have Tug’s boat, and we’ll be there in half-an-hour, so look alive.”

Dick, rather thankful to be able to get off unobserved, hurried off on his savoury errand. He had scarcely once gone down town since the affair of Tom White’s boat, and certainly not since the alarming paragraphs in theObserverhad taken to appearing. But he comforted himself with the reflection that Tom was at present on the high seas, and that no one else appeared to have any suspicion which would connect him (Dick) with the mysterious lad who had been seen on the Strand on the eventful night last June.

For all that, he dawdled not a moment longer than he could help. Green had the worms ready.

“So you’re going for a day’s sport, are you?” said he. “It’s a good day, too, and the whiting ought to be plentiful off the rock.”

“I hope they will,” said Dick.

“They’ve been let alone the last week or two,” said the bait merchant, “since our chaps have been out in the deep, so you’ve a fair chance.”

“When will the boats be back?” asked Dick, rather nervously.

“We should have seen some of them this morning, but the wind’s dropped. Maybe it will be afternoon before they come in.”

“It’s always a great day when they come in, isn’t it?” asked the boy.

“Depends on the catch. When it’s a bad catch no one cares to see them back.”

Dick tried hard to keep down his next question, but it had a sort of fascination for him, and he could not smother it.

“I suppose,” said he in the most careless tones he could assume, “Tom White’s not likely to come back in a hurry?”

Green laughed. He was no friend of the double-dealing mariner.

“Not if he knows who’s a-going to be down on the beach to welcome him. But, bless you, how’s he to know? The sooner he comes home and gets his right lodgings, the better, so say I. What do you say, young squire?”

The “young squire” did not exactly know what to say, and took up his can of worms to depart, with something like precipitation.

He found Cresswell and Freckleton waiting for him down at the boat. Until this moment he had never seen the Templeton Hermit, except occasionally at a distance; and he glanced with some curiosity at the face of the fellow who had beaten Pledge for the Bishop’s Scholarship. He didn’t altogether dislike him. The stolid face and bright black eyes of the Hermit made him a little uncomfortable, but there was an occasional twitch at the corners of his mouth, and a music, when he chose to use it, in his voice, which reconciled the junior to his presence, and even interested him in the disposal of his new patron’s good graces.

It didn’t take long to get “all aboard.” The precious worms were safely deposited in the hold, the three lines were stowed away under the seat, and the basket containing the sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs added ballast to the bows. Cresswell, who had an idea of doing things comfortably, had brought his ulster and made Freckleton bring his. The latter had armed himself also with a Shakespeare in case the fish didn’t bite; and three towels, knowingly produced by the whipper-in, added a further pleasant suggestion for whiling away a dull half-hour.

The calmness of the day and the absence of any sign of wind induced the party to vote the mast and sails a useless encumbrance, and they were accordingly left ashore, and a spare pair of oars taken in their place. The irony of fate left it to Dick’s lot to see the anchor was in proper trim and firmly secured—a task which he discharged with almost vicious solemnity.

“What time does the tide turn, Joe?” asked Cresswell of the boatman as they ran the boat down to the water.

“Half-past two about, mister. Yer’ll need to bring her in close ashore and give the Fiddle-sand a wide berth while the tide flows.”

“All right. Shove her off, Joe.”

They had a glorious day. The sea had scarcely a ripple, and the sky scarcely a cloud. The fish seemed to vie with one another in falling upon the bait. The view of Templeton from the sea was perfect, and the sharp outline of the Sprit Rock above them was grandeur itself.

Dick, as he lolled over the side of the boat, slowly hauling up his line and speculating whether he had got two fish on each hook or only one, felt supremely at peace with himself and all the world. The sandwiches had been delicious, Cresswell and Freckleton had treated him like a lord, the pile of fish on the floor of the boat was worthy of a professional crew, the light breeze was just enough to keep the sun in his place, and the sofa he had made for himself with Freckleton’s ulster in the bows was like a feather bed. Dick loved the world and everything in it, and when Cresswell said, “Walk into those sandwiches, young ’un,” he really thought life the sweetest task in which mortal can engage.

Cresswell and Freckleton were scarcely more proof against the luxury of the morning. They chatted in a sort of sleepy undertone, as if they knew all Nature was taking a nap and didn’t want to be disturbed.

“How did you think old Jupiter got through levée?” asked Cresswell.

“Well, for those who wish him well,” said the Hermit.

“Ah, he’s an uphill job before him, and I fancy he knows it. If he ever is down in the mouth, I think he was so last night after it was all over.”

“I thought so too,” said Freckleton; “that is, I shouldn’t call it down in the mouth. He had headache; that’s about the same thing.”

“He’s staked high. No one else would have dared to challenge the whole school in the way he did,” said Cresswell, dropping his voice, but still, in the quiet air, not quite beyond Dick’s hearing.

“It answered; it brought the right fellows to the front.”

“And shut the wrong fellows hopelessly out?”

“I hope not. Many of them are only fools. They think it’s plucky to defy the powers that be, and quite forget it’s pluckier to defy themselves.”

“That’s a neat way of putting it, old man!”

“There’s a big bite this time!” said the Hermit.

So there was—three fish on two hooks, and it was some time before the diversion was disposed of.

“It’s a pity every one can’t be made to see he’s his own worst enemy; it would simplify matters awfully. If a youngster got it into his head that it wanted more pluck to go against himself than all the Templeton rules put together, we should get some surprises!”

“No chance of that, I’m afraid, while there are fellows like Pledge, who make it a business to drag youngsters down.”

“You may say so. I should say there’s not a youngster in Templeton in greater peril at this moment than Pledge’s fag, and the worst of it is there is no one to help him.”

Dick suddenly felt his sofa uncomfortable. The boards underneath cramped him; the sun, too, for some reason or other, became too hot, and the breeze fidgeted him; the last sandwich he had eaten had had too much mustard in it; he was getting fagged of fishing.

Although the talk of the two seniors had not been intended for his ears, it had been impossible for him to avoid overhearing it, even if he had tried, which he had not, and the Hermit’s last words had stung him to the quick and spoilt his enjoyment.

“What’s the matter, youngster?” asked Cresswell. “Getting sea-sick?”

“No,” replied Dick, trying to compose himself.

“What do you say to a header?”

Dick was stripped in half a minute. Anything for a change. And what change more delightful than a plunge in the lovely green sea?

The seniors smiled at his hurry, as they proceeded in a more leisurely fashion to follow his example.

“Don’t wait for us; over you go,” said Cresswell, “and tell old Neptune we are coming.”

Dick waited for no further invitation, and sprang from the gunwale. They watched the spreading circles that tracked his dive, and marked the white shining streak as it darted past, under the water.

“He’ll be a shark, before long,” said Cresswell. “Look at the distance he’s dived.”

“He has to thank the tide for part of this, though,” said Freckleton, looking at his watch. “Why, it’s—”

An exclamation from Cresswell stopped him. Dick had reappeared, but he was twenty yards at least astern of the boat, and drifting back every moment.

At first he did not seem to be aware of it; but, treading water, waved one hand exultantly to celebrate his long dive.

But when he began to swim, leisurely at first, but harder presently, he suddenly realised his position, and saw that instead of making way back to the boat, he was losing distance at every stroke.

Some of my readers may have been in a similar position, and know the horror of helplessness which, for a moment, comes over the swimmer at such a time. Dick was not given to panic, still less fear, but, for all that, the minute which ensued was one of the most terrible in his life.

At certain times of the tide, the current between the Sprit Rock and the long Fiddle-Sandbank rushed like a mill-race. The boys knew this; they had been reminded of it at starting. But the morning had passed so quickly that, until Dick had taken his header, and they saw him swept astern, it had never occurredto one of them that it could possibly be three o’clock. Freckleton was the first to see the danger, and almost as soon as Dick appeared above water, he flung off his coat and boots, and saying to Cresswell, “Come quick with the boat,” plunged into the water.

He was soon at Dick’s side; not to support him, for the boy was able to do that for himself, but to encourage him to keep cool, and not waste his strength in endeavouring to stem the tide. And Dick had sense enough to take the advice, and tread water quietly till the boat should come.

It seemed a long time coming. The anchor was fast in the bottom, and it wanted all Cresswell’s strength to get it up. Indeed he would have been tempted to simplify matters by cutting the cord, had he had a knife at hand.

By the time it was free, the boys were almost a quarter of a mile away, and getting weary. But once free, their suspense was not prolonged. Cresswell bore quickly down upon them, and picked them up; and rarely did three friends breathe more freely than when they all stood once more on the floor of their boat.

There was no speech-making or wringing of hands, no bragging, no compliments. They knew one another too well for that, and dressed in silence, much as if the adventure had been an ordinary incident of an ordinary bathe.

“It strikes me,” said Cresswell, who still had the oars out, “it will take us all our time to get back. Are you ready to take an oar, old man?”

Short as the time had been—indeed the whole incident had not occupied much more than five minutes—the boat was about a mile below her old moorings, and still in the rush of the current.

It was little the two rowers could do to keep her head up, much less to make any way; and finally it became clear that if they were to get back to Templeton at all that day, they must either anchor where they were, for six hours, with the risk of their rope not holding in the Race, or else let the current take them out to the open, and then make a long row back outside the Sprit, and clear of the Fiddle Bank.

They decided on the latter, and somewhat gloomily rested on their oars, and watched the backward sweep of the boat on the tide seaward.

The square tower of Templeton had become a mere speck on the coast-line, before they felt the tide under them relax, and knew they were out of the Race.

Then they manned their oars, and began their long pull home. Fortunately the water still remained quiet, and the breeze did not freshen. But after about a mile had been made, and the Sprit Rock seemed only midway between them and the shore, a peril still more serious overtook them. The sky became overcast, and a sea mist, springing from nowhere, came down on the breeze, blotting out first the horizon, then the rock, and finally the coast, and leaving them virtually blindfolded in mid-ocean.

“We may as well anchor, and wait till it clears,” said Cresswell.

“I think we might go on slowly,” said Freckleton. “If we keep the breeze on our left, and Dick looks sharp out in front, we are bound to come either on the Sprit or the shore. Try it for a bit.”

So they tried; rowing gingerly, and steering by the breeze on their cheeks, while Dick, ahead, strained his eyes into the soaking mist.

They may have made another mile, and still the mist wrapped them round. They had no idea where, they were. They might be close to the Rock, or they might have drifted down the coast, or they might be coming on to the Race again.

Still, anything seemed better than lying idle, and they paddled steadily on, hoping against hope for a single glimpse of daylight through the veil.

Suddenly Dick held his hand above his head, and shouted—

“Easy! Hold hard!”

And they could just see a dark object ahead on the water.

It couldn’t be the rock, for it was too small; and they could hardly imagine it to be part of the pier, or a boat on the beach.

They shouted; and, in a moment, an answer came, “Ahoy, there!” and they knew they had come upon a fishing-boat at anchor.

“It’s one of the fleet, waiting to get in. We’d better go alongside, and wait with them,” said Freckleton.

So Dick shouted to say they were coming, and they rowed carefully alongside.

The first sight that met Dick’s astonished eyes, as he reached across to seize the gunwale of the friendly boat, was Tom White, sitting comfortably smoking in the stern.

“Good day, young gentlemen,” said that worthy. “Can’t keep away from us, can’t yer?”

“Hullo, Tom! We’ve lost our way in the mist,” said Cresswell. “Where are we?”

“Reckon you’re in the bay, and a swim to the pierhead.”

“So near! We made sure we were outside the Sprit. How long have you been here?”

“Come here when the tide turned, we did,” said Tom, “with a boat full, and no mistake. Say, young gentlemen, you ain’t forgot the poor mariner that lost his boat, have yer? It’s cruel hard to lose your living and have to begin afresh.”

“If you mean you want a shilling for piloting us ashore,” said Cresswell, “here you are. Will you take us, or will your mate?”

Dick grew uncomfortable, and, under pretence of wanting to examine some of the fish on the floor of the lugger, he scrambled up the side, and got in.

“Come back, Dick; do you hear?” called Cresswell. “We must go back if one of those fellows will run us in. Will you come, Tom?”

Visions of the bar-parlour of the “Dolphin” hovered before Tom’s mind as he looked down at the speaker and the shilling that lay in his hand.

He was just about to consent, when he felt his arm nudged by Dick, who was crouching down over the fish at his feet.

“Tom White,” said the boy, looking up nervously, “don’t go ashore. They are going to arrest you for pawning that boat that didn’t belong to you. Tell your mate to see us ashore. There’s another shilling for you!”

Tom took his pipe out of his mouth and gaped at the boy. Then he slowly pocketed the shilling. Then he relieved himself of an oath. Then he called his mate—

“Jerry, see the squires ashore.”

With fluttering heart Dick scrambled back into the boat, followed by the hulking Jerry, who, in a very few minutes, ran them comfortably on to the beach, and made an end of all their perils for that day.

They reached Templeton just in time for call over; and no one knew, as they walked into Chapel that evening, through what adventures they had passed since they left Templeton in the morning.

Early next morning Dick could not resist the temptation of going down to call on Mr Green.

“Well, did the boats all come in?” he inquired.

“All, bar Tom White’s. And they do say it will be long enough before any one sees him in these parts again. He’s got wind somehow. It’s wonderful the way news travels on water—so it is.”

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