Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Five.How our heroes make their record.If I were a poet, I should, at this point, pause to invoke Diana, Apollo, Adonis, and the other deities who preside over the chase, to aid me in describing the famous and never-to-be-forgotten run of the Templeton Harriers that early autumn afternoon. How they broke in full cry out of the fields up on to the free downs. How, with the fresh sea scent in their faces, they scoured the ridge that links Templeton with Blackarch, and Blackarch with Topping. How at the third mile they cried off inland, and plunged into the valley by Waly’s bottom and Bardie’s farm, through the pleasant village of Steg, over the railway, and along the fringe of Swilford Wood, to the open heath beyond. How half the hunt was out of it before they went up the other side of the valley, and scattered the gravel on the top of Welkin Beacon. How those who were left dropped thence suddenly on Lowhouse, and swam the Gurgle a mile above the ford. How from Lowhouse they swerved eastward, and caught the railway again at Norton Cutting. How they lost the scent in Durdon Copse, but found it again where the wood and the gravel pits met. How the six who stayed in blistered their feet after that on the gritty high road, till Cresswell hallooed them over the hedge, and showed them the scent down the winding banks of the Babrook. And once again, how they dived into the queer hamlet of Little Maddick, and saw the very loaf and round of cheese off which the hares had snatched a hasty meal not five minutes before. How Mansfield and Cresswell made a vow to taste neither meat nor drink till they had run their quarry down; and how the ever-diminishing pack sighted the hares just out of Maddick, going up the Bengle Hill. Over Bengle Hill, down into the valley beyond, and up the shoulder of Blackarch ridge, how they toiled and struggled, till once more the sea burst on to their view, and the salt breezes put new life into their panting frames. How along the ridge and down towards Grey Harbour the leaders gained on the hares, hand-over-hand. And how, at last, in that final burst along the hard, dry sand, the hares were caught gloriously, half a mile from home, after one of the fastest runs Templeton had ever recorded.But my muse must curb her wings, and descend from poetry to prose, in order to narrate the particular adventures of our three modest heroes.For the first half-mile, be it said to their glory, they led the hunt.Being convinced that their only hope was to get a good start, and shake off the field from the very beginning, they dashed to the front on Cresswell’s cry of “Forward!” at the rate of ten miles an hour, and for five minutes showed Templeton the way.Then occurred one of those lamentable disasters which so often befall youthful runners on the exhaustion of their first wind: Coote’s shoe-lace came undone! That was the sole reason for his pulling up. To say that he was blown, or that the pace was hard on him was adding insult to calamity; and doubtless the redness of his countenance as he knelt down to make fast the truant lace was solely due to indignation at the possibility of such a suggestion.Dick and Heathcote, as they stood one on each side of him, really thankful for the pause, professed to be highly impatient at the delay.“Come on,” said Dick, “here they all come.”“What a brutal time you take to do up that beastly lace!” cried Georgie, “we might have been in the next field by this time.”“I think it will hold now,” said Coote, rising slowly to his feet, as the pack came up in full cry.“Blown already, youngsters?” asked Cresswell. “Better go home.”“We’re not blown at all,” said Dick, trotting on abreast of the whipper-in; “Coote’s lace came undone, that was all.”“Yes; we should have been in the next field if it hadn’t,” said the owner of the luckless lace.The Harriers smiled, and for a minute or two the pack swung in an even line across the field.Then Coote, anxious not to crowd anyone, let half a dozen or so of the Fifth go in front; and Dick and Georgie, generously considering that it would be rather low to leave their short-winded comrade in the lurch, dropped behind the leading rank in order to be nearer him.In a minute more all anxiety Coote may have felt as to crowding any one was at an end. He was a yard or two in the rear of the last man, with a stitch in his side, beginning in his inmost soul to wonder whether the new “Sociables” Club was such a very good thing after all.Dick and Georgie, as they gradually sacrificed their prospect of being in at the death, and fell back to the support of their ally, waxed very contemptuous of stitch in a fellow’s side. They knew what it meant. It was a pity Coote had started if he was liable to that sort of thing. His stitch had cost the “Firm” a whole field already. However, they were not selfish; they must back him up even if it meant coming in at the tail of the hunt; though, to be sure, the pace Mansfield, Cresswell, and a few others were going at was one which couldn’t be kept up, and the “Firm,” as soon as the stitch was out, might be in the running after all.By dint of persuasions, threats, and imputations, Coote’s stitch did come out; but before it was gone the last of the pack were seen going over the ridge.“We’re out of it,” said Georgie, despondently.“Not a bit of it,” said Dick, who was getting his second wind and felt like holding on. “We’re bound to pull up on them if Coote only keeps up.”So they held on gallantly.They could not long keep up the fiction of being in the hunt. No amount of self-deception could persuade them, when the end of the straggling line of fellows going up the ridge was a clear half-mile ahead, that they were in it. Still every minute they held on they felt more like staying, and when they reflected that it was possible to run through the hunt without being in at the death, they took comfort, and determined Templeton should not say they had turned tail.“We shall have to follow the scent now,” said Dick, when the pack suddenly disappeared to view over the ridge. “Thank goodness, it’s all white paper, and plenty of it. Come on, you fellows, we’ll run it through yet.”“I feel quite fresh,” said Coote, mopping his head with his handkerchief. “How far do you think we’ve gone—six miles?”“Six! we’ve not done a mile and a half yet.”Coote put away his handkerchief, and gave the buckle of his running drawers a hitch; and the “Firm” settled down to business.Having once found out their pace, and got their second wind, they felt comparatively comfortable. The scent lay true up the ridge, and as they rose foot by foot, and presently breasted the bluff nor’-wester, they felt like keeping it up for a week.“Hullo, I say,” cried Georgie, when the top of the ridge was gained, “there they go right under us; we might almost catch them by a short cut.”“Can’t do it,” said Dick, decisively. “We’re bound to follow the scent, even if the hares doubled and came back across this very place.”“Would real harriers do that?” asked Coote. “If I was a real harrier, and saw the hare close to me, I’d go for him no matter what the scent was.”“All very well, you can’t do it to-day—not if you want to get on the list,” said Dick. “They’ve taken a sharp turn, though, at the bottom.”Trotting down a steep hill is not one of the joys of the chase, and our heroes, by the time they got to the level bottom, felt as bruised and shaken as if they had been in a railway accident.However, a mile on the flat pulled them together again, and they plodded on by Bardie’s Farm, where the scent became sparse, and on to Steg where, for the first time since leaving Templeton, they came upon traces of their fellow-man.The worthy inhabitants of Steg, particularly the junior portion of them, hailed our three heroes with demonstrations of friendly interest. They had turned out fully half an hour ago to see the main body of the hunt go by, and just as they were returning regretfully to their ordinary occupations, the cry of “Three more of ’em!” came as a welcome reprieve, and brought them back into the highway in full force.Fond of their joke were the friendly youth of Steg, and considering the quiet life they led, their wit was none of the dullest.“Hurrah! Here’s three more hounds!”“They’s the puppies, I reckon.”“Nay, one of ’em’s got the rickets, see.”“If they don’t look to it, the hares will be round the world and catching them up.”“Hi! Mister puppy, you’re going wrong; they went t’other way.”“Shut up!” cried Dick.“Go and give your pigs their dinner,” shouted Heathcote.Coote contented himself with running through the village with his tongue in his cheek, and in another three minutes the trio were beyond earshot and shaking the dust of Steg from their feet.“How many miles now?” asked Coote, with a fine effort to appear unconcerned at the answer, which he put down in his own mind at six or seven miles.“Three and a half, about—put it on, you fellows.”It was a long trot along the springy turf outside Swilford Wood. Once or twice the scent turned in and got doubtful among the underwood, but it came out again just as often, and presently turned off on to the Heath.Our heroes ploughed honestly through the bracken and gorse which tangled their feet and scratched their bare shins at every step. That mile over the Heath was the most trying yet. The hares seemed to have picked out the very cruellest track they could find; and when, presently, the “Firm” caught sight of the ruthless little patches of paper going straight up the side of Welkin Beacon, Coote fairly cried for quarter and announced he must sit down.His companions, though they would not have liked to make the suggestion themselves, were by no means inexorable to the appeal.“Why, we’ve hardly started yet,” said Dick, throwing himself down on the ground; “you’re a nice fellow to begin to want a rest!”“Only just started!” gasped Coote; “I never ran so far in my life.”“We came that last bit pretty well, considering the ground,” said Heathcote, anxious to make the halt as justifiable as possible.“I wonder where the hares are now?” said Dick, rather pensively.“Back at Templeton, perhaps,” said Heathcote, “having iced ginger-beer, or turning into the ‘Tub.’”“Shut up, Georgie,” said Dick, with a wince. “What’s the use of talking about iced ginger-beer out here?”They lay some minutes, each dreading the first suggestion to move. Coote feigned to have dropped asleep, and Heathcote became intensely interested in the anatomy of a thistle.Dick was the only one who could not honestly settle down, and the dreaded summons, when at last it came, came in his voice:—“You lazy beggars,” cried he, starting up, “get up, can’t you? and come on.”Rip Van Winkle never slept more profoundly than did Coote at that moment. But alas! Rip had the longer nap of the two.An unceremonious application of the leader’s toe, and a threat to go on alone, brought the “Firm” to their feet in double-quick time, and started them up the steep side of the Beacon Hill.Demoralised by their halt, they fared badly up the slope, and had it not been for Dick’s almost vicious resolution, which kept him going and overcame his own frequent inclination to yield to the lazier motions of his companions, they might never have done it. Dick saw that the effort was critical, and he was inexorable. Even Georgie thought him unkind, and Coote positively hated him up that slope.Oh, those never-ending ridges, one above the other, each seeming to be the top, but each discovering another beyond more odious than itself!More than once they felt they had just enough left in them to make the peak that faced them; and then, when it was reached, their endurance had to stretch and stretch until it seemed that the point of breaking must come at each step.If nothing else they had ever done deserved the reward of the virtuous, that honest pull up the side of the Welkin Beacon did; and Freckleton, had he seen them making the last scramble, would have put their names down on his list without further probation.The cairn stood before them at last, and as they rushed to it, and planted themselves on the topmost point, where still a few scraps of the scent lingered, all the fatigue and labour were forgotten in an exhilarating sense of triumph and achievement.“Rather a breather, that,” said Dick, his honest face beaming all over; “you chaps took a lot of driving.”“I feel quite fresh after it,” said Coote, beaming too.“You didn’t feel fresh ten minutes ago, under the last shoulder but one, my boy. If you feel so fresh, suppose you trot down and up again while Georgie and I sit here and look at the view.”Coote declined, and after a short rest they dropped down the long slope, with the scent in full view, on to Lowhouse, where the Gurgle, slipping clear and deep between its banks, seemed to them one of the loveliest pictures Nature ever drew.The scent lay right along the bank, sometimes down on the stones, sometimes on the high paths above the tree tops, until suddenly it stopped.“By Jove, we shall have to swim for it, you fellows,” cried Dick, delighted. “Chuck your shoes and things across, and tumble in.”With joy they obeyed. They would fain have spent half an hour in the delicious water, so soft and cool and deep. But Dick was in a self-denying mood, and would not allow his men more than ten minutes. That, however, was as good as an hour’s nap; and when, after dressing and picking up the scent, they took up the running again, it was like a new start.Half-a-mile down, they came on to the country road, and here suddenly the scent vanished. High or low they could not find it. It neither crossed the road, nor went up the road, nor went down the road. They sniffed round in circles, but all to no good—not a scrap of paper was anywhere within twenty yards, except at the spot where they had struck the road.They had gone, perhaps, half a mile with no sign yet of the scent, and were beginning to make up their minds that, after all, they should have turned up the road instead of down, when a horseman, followed by a groom, turned a corner of the road in front of them and came to meet them.“Hurrah!” cried Dick, “here’s a chap we can ask.”The “chap” in question was evidently somewhat perplexed by the apparition of these three bareheaded, bare-legged, dust-stained youngsters, and reined up his horse as they trotted up.“I say,” cried Dick, ten yards off, “have you seen the Harriers go by, please?—Whew!”This last exclamation was caused by the sudden and alarming discovery that the “chap” thus unceremoniously addressed was no other than one of the two magistrates before whom, not three days ago, Tom White had stood on his trial in the presence of the “Firm.”“What Harriers, my man?” asked the gentleman.“Oh, if you please, the Templeton Harriers, sir. It’s a paper-chase, you know.”“Oh, you’re Templeton boys, are you? Why, I was a Templetonian myself at your age,” said the delighted old boy. “No; no Harriers have gone this way. You must have lost the scent.”“We lost it half a mile ago. If you’re going that way, we can show you where,” said Dick.“Come on, then,” said the good-humoured squire; “we’ll smell ’em out somewhere.”So the “Firm” turned and trotted in its very best form alongside the worthy magistrate until they reached the point where the scent had struck the road.The old Templetonian summoned his groom, and, dismounting, joined the boys, with all the ardour of an old sportsman, in their search for the scent. He poked the hedges knowingly with his whip, and tracked up the ditches; he took note of the direction of the wind, and ordered his groom to take his horse a wide sweep of the field opposite on the chance of a discovery.The boys, fired by his example, strained every nerve to prove themselves good Harriers, and covered a mile or more in their circuits.At length the old gentleman brought his whip a crack down on his leggings and exclaimed:—“I have it! Ha! ha! knowing young dogs! Look here, my boy! look here!”And, taking Dick by the arm, he led him to the point where the scent touched the road.“Do you see what they’ve done?—artful young scamps! They’ve doubled on their own scent. Usen’t to be allowed in my days.”And, delighted with his discovery, he led them back along the scent for a hundred yards or so up the field, where it suddenly forked off behind some gorse-bushes, and made straight for the railway at Norton.“Ha! ha! the best bit of sniffing I’ve had these many years. And, now I come to think of it, with the wind the way it is blowing, they may have dropped their scent fair, and the breeze has taken it on to the old track. Cunning young dogs!”“Thanks, awfully,” said Dick, gratefully; “we should never have found it.”The other two echoed their gratitude, and the delighted old gentleman valued their thanks quite as much as his Commission of the Peace.“Now you’ve got it,” said he, “come along and have a bit of lunch at my house; I’m not five minutes away.”“Thanks, very much,” said Dick, “but I’m afraid—”“Nonsense! come on. You’re out of the hunt; ten minutes won’t make any difference.”Of course they yielded, and enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of cold meat and bread and cheese, which made new men of them. It took all their good manners to curb their attentions to the joint; and their chatty host spun out the repast with such stories of his own school days, that the ten minutes grew to fully half an hour before they could get away.Before they did so Dick, who for a quarter of an hour previously had been exhibiting signs of agitation and inward debate, contrived to astonish both the “Firm,” and his host.“We saw you at Tom White’s trial the other day, sir,” said he, abruptly, at the close of one of the Squire’s stories.“Bless my soul! were you there? Why, of course—all three of you; I saw you. They didn’t let the youngsters do that sort of thing in my day.”“We were rather interested about White, you know,” said Dick, nervously.“A good-for-nothing vagabond he is!” said the very unprofessional magistrate.“We rather hope,” said Dick, turning very red, “he’ll get let off.”“Eh? what? Do you know, you young scamp, I can— So you want him let off, do you? How’s that?”“Because he didn’t take the boat away,” said Dick, avoiding the horror-struck eyes of his “Firm.”“We—that is I—let it go.”“What do you say?” said the Squire, putting down his knife and fork and sitting back in his chair.Whereupon Dick, as much to stave off the expected storm as to justify himself, proceeded to give a true, though agitated, story of his and Georgie’s adventures on the day of the Grandcourt match, appealing to Georgie at every stage in the narration to corroborate him. Which Georgie did, almost noisily.The magistrate heard it all out in silence, with a face gradually becoming serious.“Do you know what you can get for doing it?” he asked.Dick’s face grew graver and graver.“Shall we be transported?” he asked, with a quaver in his voice.The magistrate took a hurried gulp from the tumbler before him.“You’ve put me in a fix, my man. You’d no business to get round me to prevent me doing my duty.”“I really didn’t mean to do that,” put in Dick.“No—we wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Georgie.“Well, never mind that. Whatever Tom White did to you, you’d no right to do what you did. You’ve put me in a fix, I say. Take my advice and write to your father, and tell him all about it, and get him to come down. If Tom White’s partners and the pawnbroker get their money, they may stop the case, and there’ll be an end of it. If they don’t, Tom must take his chance. Dear, dear, things have changed in Templeton since my day. Confound it, I wish theHarriers would choose some other run! A nice fix I’m in, to be sure—young rascals!”Late that evening a crowd assembled in the Quadrangle of Templeton. The hunt had been in three hours ago, and all the hounds but three had turned up and gone to their kennels. It was to welcome the remaining three that the crowd was assembled. They had already been signalled from the beach, and the faint hum in the High Street told that they had already got into their last run.Nearer and louder grew the sound, till the hum became a shout, and the shout a roar, as through the great gate of Templeton three small travel-stained figures trotted gamely into the Quad, with elbows down and heads up.They hardly seemed to hear the cheers or notice the crowd, but kept their faces anxiously towards where Cresswell—book in hand—stood at the door of Westover’s to receive them.“Have you run right through?” he asked as they came up.“Yes, every step,” gasped Dick.Five minutes later, the “Firm” was in bed and fast asleep.And two days later, when the revised list of candidates eligible for election to the “Select Sociables” was displayed on the library door, it included the names of Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote.

If I were a poet, I should, at this point, pause to invoke Diana, Apollo, Adonis, and the other deities who preside over the chase, to aid me in describing the famous and never-to-be-forgotten run of the Templeton Harriers that early autumn afternoon. How they broke in full cry out of the fields up on to the free downs. How, with the fresh sea scent in their faces, they scoured the ridge that links Templeton with Blackarch, and Blackarch with Topping. How at the third mile they cried off inland, and plunged into the valley by Waly’s bottom and Bardie’s farm, through the pleasant village of Steg, over the railway, and along the fringe of Swilford Wood, to the open heath beyond. How half the hunt was out of it before they went up the other side of the valley, and scattered the gravel on the top of Welkin Beacon. How those who were left dropped thence suddenly on Lowhouse, and swam the Gurgle a mile above the ford. How from Lowhouse they swerved eastward, and caught the railway again at Norton Cutting. How they lost the scent in Durdon Copse, but found it again where the wood and the gravel pits met. How the six who stayed in blistered their feet after that on the gritty high road, till Cresswell hallooed them over the hedge, and showed them the scent down the winding banks of the Babrook. And once again, how they dived into the queer hamlet of Little Maddick, and saw the very loaf and round of cheese off which the hares had snatched a hasty meal not five minutes before. How Mansfield and Cresswell made a vow to taste neither meat nor drink till they had run their quarry down; and how the ever-diminishing pack sighted the hares just out of Maddick, going up the Bengle Hill. Over Bengle Hill, down into the valley beyond, and up the shoulder of Blackarch ridge, how they toiled and struggled, till once more the sea burst on to their view, and the salt breezes put new life into their panting frames. How along the ridge and down towards Grey Harbour the leaders gained on the hares, hand-over-hand. And how, at last, in that final burst along the hard, dry sand, the hares were caught gloriously, half a mile from home, after one of the fastest runs Templeton had ever recorded.

But my muse must curb her wings, and descend from poetry to prose, in order to narrate the particular adventures of our three modest heroes.

For the first half-mile, be it said to their glory, they led the hunt.

Being convinced that their only hope was to get a good start, and shake off the field from the very beginning, they dashed to the front on Cresswell’s cry of “Forward!” at the rate of ten miles an hour, and for five minutes showed Templeton the way.

Then occurred one of those lamentable disasters which so often befall youthful runners on the exhaustion of their first wind: Coote’s shoe-lace came undone! That was the sole reason for his pulling up. To say that he was blown, or that the pace was hard on him was adding insult to calamity; and doubtless the redness of his countenance as he knelt down to make fast the truant lace was solely due to indignation at the possibility of such a suggestion.

Dick and Heathcote, as they stood one on each side of him, really thankful for the pause, professed to be highly impatient at the delay.

“Come on,” said Dick, “here they all come.”

“What a brutal time you take to do up that beastly lace!” cried Georgie, “we might have been in the next field by this time.”

“I think it will hold now,” said Coote, rising slowly to his feet, as the pack came up in full cry.

“Blown already, youngsters?” asked Cresswell. “Better go home.”

“We’re not blown at all,” said Dick, trotting on abreast of the whipper-in; “Coote’s lace came undone, that was all.”

“Yes; we should have been in the next field if it hadn’t,” said the owner of the luckless lace.

The Harriers smiled, and for a minute or two the pack swung in an even line across the field.

Then Coote, anxious not to crowd anyone, let half a dozen or so of the Fifth go in front; and Dick and Georgie, generously considering that it would be rather low to leave their short-winded comrade in the lurch, dropped behind the leading rank in order to be nearer him.

In a minute more all anxiety Coote may have felt as to crowding any one was at an end. He was a yard or two in the rear of the last man, with a stitch in his side, beginning in his inmost soul to wonder whether the new “Sociables” Club was such a very good thing after all.

Dick and Georgie, as they gradually sacrificed their prospect of being in at the death, and fell back to the support of their ally, waxed very contemptuous of stitch in a fellow’s side. They knew what it meant. It was a pity Coote had started if he was liable to that sort of thing. His stitch had cost the “Firm” a whole field already. However, they were not selfish; they must back him up even if it meant coming in at the tail of the hunt; though, to be sure, the pace Mansfield, Cresswell, and a few others were going at was one which couldn’t be kept up, and the “Firm,” as soon as the stitch was out, might be in the running after all.

By dint of persuasions, threats, and imputations, Coote’s stitch did come out; but before it was gone the last of the pack were seen going over the ridge.

“We’re out of it,” said Georgie, despondently.

“Not a bit of it,” said Dick, who was getting his second wind and felt like holding on. “We’re bound to pull up on them if Coote only keeps up.”

So they held on gallantly.

They could not long keep up the fiction of being in the hunt. No amount of self-deception could persuade them, when the end of the straggling line of fellows going up the ridge was a clear half-mile ahead, that they were in it. Still every minute they held on they felt more like staying, and when they reflected that it was possible to run through the hunt without being in at the death, they took comfort, and determined Templeton should not say they had turned tail.

“We shall have to follow the scent now,” said Dick, when the pack suddenly disappeared to view over the ridge. “Thank goodness, it’s all white paper, and plenty of it. Come on, you fellows, we’ll run it through yet.”

“I feel quite fresh,” said Coote, mopping his head with his handkerchief. “How far do you think we’ve gone—six miles?”

“Six! we’ve not done a mile and a half yet.”

Coote put away his handkerchief, and gave the buckle of his running drawers a hitch; and the “Firm” settled down to business.

Having once found out their pace, and got their second wind, they felt comparatively comfortable. The scent lay true up the ridge, and as they rose foot by foot, and presently breasted the bluff nor’-wester, they felt like keeping it up for a week.

“Hullo, I say,” cried Georgie, when the top of the ridge was gained, “there they go right under us; we might almost catch them by a short cut.”

“Can’t do it,” said Dick, decisively. “We’re bound to follow the scent, even if the hares doubled and came back across this very place.”

“Would real harriers do that?” asked Coote. “If I was a real harrier, and saw the hare close to me, I’d go for him no matter what the scent was.”

“All very well, you can’t do it to-day—not if you want to get on the list,” said Dick. “They’ve taken a sharp turn, though, at the bottom.”

Trotting down a steep hill is not one of the joys of the chase, and our heroes, by the time they got to the level bottom, felt as bruised and shaken as if they had been in a railway accident.

However, a mile on the flat pulled them together again, and they plodded on by Bardie’s Farm, where the scent became sparse, and on to Steg where, for the first time since leaving Templeton, they came upon traces of their fellow-man.

The worthy inhabitants of Steg, particularly the junior portion of them, hailed our three heroes with demonstrations of friendly interest. They had turned out fully half an hour ago to see the main body of the hunt go by, and just as they were returning regretfully to their ordinary occupations, the cry of “Three more of ’em!” came as a welcome reprieve, and brought them back into the highway in full force.

Fond of their joke were the friendly youth of Steg, and considering the quiet life they led, their wit was none of the dullest.

“Hurrah! Here’s three more hounds!”

“They’s the puppies, I reckon.”

“Nay, one of ’em’s got the rickets, see.”

“If they don’t look to it, the hares will be round the world and catching them up.”

“Hi! Mister puppy, you’re going wrong; they went t’other way.”

“Shut up!” cried Dick.

“Go and give your pigs their dinner,” shouted Heathcote.

Coote contented himself with running through the village with his tongue in his cheek, and in another three minutes the trio were beyond earshot and shaking the dust of Steg from their feet.

“How many miles now?” asked Coote, with a fine effort to appear unconcerned at the answer, which he put down in his own mind at six or seven miles.

“Three and a half, about—put it on, you fellows.”

It was a long trot along the springy turf outside Swilford Wood. Once or twice the scent turned in and got doubtful among the underwood, but it came out again just as often, and presently turned off on to the Heath.

Our heroes ploughed honestly through the bracken and gorse which tangled their feet and scratched their bare shins at every step. That mile over the Heath was the most trying yet. The hares seemed to have picked out the very cruellest track they could find; and when, presently, the “Firm” caught sight of the ruthless little patches of paper going straight up the side of Welkin Beacon, Coote fairly cried for quarter and announced he must sit down.

His companions, though they would not have liked to make the suggestion themselves, were by no means inexorable to the appeal.

“Why, we’ve hardly started yet,” said Dick, throwing himself down on the ground; “you’re a nice fellow to begin to want a rest!”

“Only just started!” gasped Coote; “I never ran so far in my life.”

“We came that last bit pretty well, considering the ground,” said Heathcote, anxious to make the halt as justifiable as possible.

“I wonder where the hares are now?” said Dick, rather pensively.

“Back at Templeton, perhaps,” said Heathcote, “having iced ginger-beer, or turning into the ‘Tub.’”

“Shut up, Georgie,” said Dick, with a wince. “What’s the use of talking about iced ginger-beer out here?”

They lay some minutes, each dreading the first suggestion to move. Coote feigned to have dropped asleep, and Heathcote became intensely interested in the anatomy of a thistle.

Dick was the only one who could not honestly settle down, and the dreaded summons, when at last it came, came in his voice:—

“You lazy beggars,” cried he, starting up, “get up, can’t you? and come on.”

Rip Van Winkle never slept more profoundly than did Coote at that moment. But alas! Rip had the longer nap of the two.

An unceremonious application of the leader’s toe, and a threat to go on alone, brought the “Firm” to their feet in double-quick time, and started them up the steep side of the Beacon Hill.

Demoralised by their halt, they fared badly up the slope, and had it not been for Dick’s almost vicious resolution, which kept him going and overcame his own frequent inclination to yield to the lazier motions of his companions, they might never have done it. Dick saw that the effort was critical, and he was inexorable. Even Georgie thought him unkind, and Coote positively hated him up that slope.

Oh, those never-ending ridges, one above the other, each seeming to be the top, but each discovering another beyond more odious than itself!

More than once they felt they had just enough left in them to make the peak that faced them; and then, when it was reached, their endurance had to stretch and stretch until it seemed that the point of breaking must come at each step.

If nothing else they had ever done deserved the reward of the virtuous, that honest pull up the side of the Welkin Beacon did; and Freckleton, had he seen them making the last scramble, would have put their names down on his list without further probation.

The cairn stood before them at last, and as they rushed to it, and planted themselves on the topmost point, where still a few scraps of the scent lingered, all the fatigue and labour were forgotten in an exhilarating sense of triumph and achievement.

“Rather a breather, that,” said Dick, his honest face beaming all over; “you chaps took a lot of driving.”

“I feel quite fresh after it,” said Coote, beaming too.

“You didn’t feel fresh ten minutes ago, under the last shoulder but one, my boy. If you feel so fresh, suppose you trot down and up again while Georgie and I sit here and look at the view.”

Coote declined, and after a short rest they dropped down the long slope, with the scent in full view, on to Lowhouse, where the Gurgle, slipping clear and deep between its banks, seemed to them one of the loveliest pictures Nature ever drew.

The scent lay right along the bank, sometimes down on the stones, sometimes on the high paths above the tree tops, until suddenly it stopped.

“By Jove, we shall have to swim for it, you fellows,” cried Dick, delighted. “Chuck your shoes and things across, and tumble in.”

With joy they obeyed. They would fain have spent half an hour in the delicious water, so soft and cool and deep. But Dick was in a self-denying mood, and would not allow his men more than ten minutes. That, however, was as good as an hour’s nap; and when, after dressing and picking up the scent, they took up the running again, it was like a new start.

Half-a-mile down, they came on to the country road, and here suddenly the scent vanished. High or low they could not find it. It neither crossed the road, nor went up the road, nor went down the road. They sniffed round in circles, but all to no good—not a scrap of paper was anywhere within twenty yards, except at the spot where they had struck the road.

They had gone, perhaps, half a mile with no sign yet of the scent, and were beginning to make up their minds that, after all, they should have turned up the road instead of down, when a horseman, followed by a groom, turned a corner of the road in front of them and came to meet them.

“Hurrah!” cried Dick, “here’s a chap we can ask.”

The “chap” in question was evidently somewhat perplexed by the apparition of these three bareheaded, bare-legged, dust-stained youngsters, and reined up his horse as they trotted up.

“I say,” cried Dick, ten yards off, “have you seen the Harriers go by, please?—Whew!”

This last exclamation was caused by the sudden and alarming discovery that the “chap” thus unceremoniously addressed was no other than one of the two magistrates before whom, not three days ago, Tom White had stood on his trial in the presence of the “Firm.”

“What Harriers, my man?” asked the gentleman.

“Oh, if you please, the Templeton Harriers, sir. It’s a paper-chase, you know.”

“Oh, you’re Templeton boys, are you? Why, I was a Templetonian myself at your age,” said the delighted old boy. “No; no Harriers have gone this way. You must have lost the scent.”

“We lost it half a mile ago. If you’re going that way, we can show you where,” said Dick.

“Come on, then,” said the good-humoured squire; “we’ll smell ’em out somewhere.”

So the “Firm” turned and trotted in its very best form alongside the worthy magistrate until they reached the point where the scent had struck the road.

The old Templetonian summoned his groom, and, dismounting, joined the boys, with all the ardour of an old sportsman, in their search for the scent. He poked the hedges knowingly with his whip, and tracked up the ditches; he took note of the direction of the wind, and ordered his groom to take his horse a wide sweep of the field opposite on the chance of a discovery.

The boys, fired by his example, strained every nerve to prove themselves good Harriers, and covered a mile or more in their circuits.

At length the old gentleman brought his whip a crack down on his leggings and exclaimed:—

“I have it! Ha! ha! knowing young dogs! Look here, my boy! look here!”

And, taking Dick by the arm, he led him to the point where the scent touched the road.

“Do you see what they’ve done?—artful young scamps! They’ve doubled on their own scent. Usen’t to be allowed in my days.”

And, delighted with his discovery, he led them back along the scent for a hundred yards or so up the field, where it suddenly forked off behind some gorse-bushes, and made straight for the railway at Norton.

“Ha! ha! the best bit of sniffing I’ve had these many years. And, now I come to think of it, with the wind the way it is blowing, they may have dropped their scent fair, and the breeze has taken it on to the old track. Cunning young dogs!”

“Thanks, awfully,” said Dick, gratefully; “we should never have found it.”

The other two echoed their gratitude, and the delighted old gentleman valued their thanks quite as much as his Commission of the Peace.

“Now you’ve got it,” said he, “come along and have a bit of lunch at my house; I’m not five minutes away.”

“Thanks, very much,” said Dick, “but I’m afraid—”

“Nonsense! come on. You’re out of the hunt; ten minutes won’t make any difference.”

Of course they yielded, and enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of cold meat and bread and cheese, which made new men of them. It took all their good manners to curb their attentions to the joint; and their chatty host spun out the repast with such stories of his own school days, that the ten minutes grew to fully half an hour before they could get away.

Before they did so Dick, who for a quarter of an hour previously had been exhibiting signs of agitation and inward debate, contrived to astonish both the “Firm,” and his host.

“We saw you at Tom White’s trial the other day, sir,” said he, abruptly, at the close of one of the Squire’s stories.

“Bless my soul! were you there? Why, of course—all three of you; I saw you. They didn’t let the youngsters do that sort of thing in my day.”

“We were rather interested about White, you know,” said Dick, nervously.

“A good-for-nothing vagabond he is!” said the very unprofessional magistrate.

“We rather hope,” said Dick, turning very red, “he’ll get let off.”

“Eh? what? Do you know, you young scamp, I can— So you want him let off, do you? How’s that?”

“Because he didn’t take the boat away,” said Dick, avoiding the horror-struck eyes of his “Firm.”

“We—that is I—let it go.”

“What do you say?” said the Squire, putting down his knife and fork and sitting back in his chair.

Whereupon Dick, as much to stave off the expected storm as to justify himself, proceeded to give a true, though agitated, story of his and Georgie’s adventures on the day of the Grandcourt match, appealing to Georgie at every stage in the narration to corroborate him. Which Georgie did, almost noisily.

The magistrate heard it all out in silence, with a face gradually becoming serious.

“Do you know what you can get for doing it?” he asked.

Dick’s face grew graver and graver.

“Shall we be transported?” he asked, with a quaver in his voice.

The magistrate took a hurried gulp from the tumbler before him.

“You’ve put me in a fix, my man. You’d no business to get round me to prevent me doing my duty.”

“I really didn’t mean to do that,” put in Dick.

“No—we wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Georgie.

“Well, never mind that. Whatever Tom White did to you, you’d no right to do what you did. You’ve put me in a fix, I say. Take my advice and write to your father, and tell him all about it, and get him to come down. If Tom White’s partners and the pawnbroker get their money, they may stop the case, and there’ll be an end of it. If they don’t, Tom must take his chance. Dear, dear, things have changed in Templeton since my day. Confound it, I wish theHarriers would choose some other run! A nice fix I’m in, to be sure—young rascals!”

Late that evening a crowd assembled in the Quadrangle of Templeton. The hunt had been in three hours ago, and all the hounds but three had turned up and gone to their kennels. It was to welcome the remaining three that the crowd was assembled. They had already been signalled from the beach, and the faint hum in the High Street told that they had already got into their last run.

Nearer and louder grew the sound, till the hum became a shout, and the shout a roar, as through the great gate of Templeton three small travel-stained figures trotted gamely into the Quad, with elbows down and heads up.

They hardly seemed to hear the cheers or notice the crowd, but kept their faces anxiously towards where Cresswell—book in hand—stood at the door of Westover’s to receive them.

“Have you run right through?” he asked as they came up.

“Yes, every step,” gasped Dick.

Five minutes later, the “Firm” was in bed and fast asleep.

And two days later, when the revised list of candidates eligible for election to the “Select Sociables” was displayed on the library door, it included the names of Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote.

Chapter Twenty Six.How the sword of Damocles still hangs over our heroes.Dear Father,—Please come down here as soon as you can. We’re in a regular row. I’m awfully afraid fifty pounds will not quite cover it.Please try and come by the next train as the case comes on on Saturday, and there’s not much time. We saw the magistrate yesterday, and made a clean breast. I hope they won’t transport us. He was very jolly helping us find the scent, and gave us a stunning lunch. We ran the big hunt right through, and are pretty sure to get our names on the “Sociables” list. I wish you and mother could have seen the view on the top of Welkin Beacon. The awkward thing is that Tom White may get transported instead of us, and it would be jolly if you could come and get him off. Coote wasn’t in it, but he’s backing us up. How is Tike? I hope they wash him regularly. If I’m not transported, I shall be home in eight weeks and three days and will take him out for walks.Love to mother, in which all join,—Your affectionate son, Basil.P.S.—If you come, don’t take Fegan’s cab—he’s a cheat. Old White will drive you cheap. He’s Tom’s father. Georgie sends his love.The reader may imagine, if he can, the consternation with which Mr and Mrs Richardson read this loving epistle at breakfast on the Friday morning following the great hunt.They gazed at one another with countenances full of horror and terror, like people suddenly brought face to face with a great calamity. At length Mr Richardson said:—“Where’s the Bradshaw, Jane?”“Oh, the train goes in half an hour. You have just time to catch it. Do go quickly. My poor, poor boy!”The father groaned; and in another five minutes he was on his way to the station.That morning, while school was in full swing, the porter entered the third class room with a telegram in his hand, which he took straight to the master.“Richardson,” said the master, “this is for you.”Dick, who was at the moment engaged in drawing a circle on his Euclid cover with a pencil and a piece of string, much to the admiration of his neighbours, jumped up as if he had been shot, and with perturbed face went up to receive the missive.He tore it open, and, as he glanced at its contents, his anxious face relaxed into a complacent grin.“From G. Richardson, London. I shall reach Templeton at 3:5 this afternoon. Meet me, if you can.”“Huzzah, Georgie!” said he, as he returned to his seat. “Father’s coming down by the 3:5. Let’s all go and meet him.”The “Firm” said they would, and, accordingly, that afternoon after dinner the trio sallied forth in great spirits and good-humour to give the anxious father a reception.With the easy memory of youth, they forgot all about the probable object of his visit; or, if they remembered it, it was with a sort of passing feeling of relief that the Tom White “row” was now as good as over—at any rate, as far as they were concerned.When Mr Richardson, haggard and anxious, descended from the carriage, it was a decided shock to encounter the beaming countenance of his son and hear his light-hearted greeting.“Hullo, father—jolly you’ve come! Old White’s cab is bagged, but Swisher’s got a good horse to go. Here’s Georgie and Coote—you know.”The bewildered gentleman greeted his son’s friends kindly, and then, disclaiming all intention of taking anybody’s cab, drew his son aside.“What is all this, my boy? Your mother and I almost broke our hearts over your letter.”“Oh, it’s all serene—really, father,” said the boy, a little disturbed by his father’s anxious tones. “We really wouldn’t have sent if the magistrate hadn’t said we’d better—would we, Georgie?”“No; he said that was our only chance,” replied Georgie.“If your two friends will take my bag up to the ‘George,’” said Mr Richardson, despairing of getting any lucid information out of the “Firm” as a body, “I should like a walk with you, Basil, on the strand.”Coote and Georgie departed with the bag, and the father and son being left alone, Dick gave a simple and unvarnished narrative of the legal difficulties in which he and his friends were involved.Mr Richardson’s heart beat lighter as he heard it. The scrape was bad enough, but it was not as bad as he had imagined, nor was the foolish boy at his side the monster of iniquity his letter had almost implied. They had a long talk, those two, that afternoon as they paced the hard, dry strand at the water’s edge and watched the waves tumbling in from the sea. They talked about far more than Tom White and his boat. Dick’s heart, once opened, poured into his father’s ears the story of all his trials and temptations, and hopes and disappointments, at Templeton.The narration did him good. It cleared and strengthened his mind wonderfully. It humbled him to discover in how many things he had been wrong, and in how many foolish; and it comforted him to feel that his father understood him and judged him fairly.It was late in the afternoon when their walk came to an end. Then Mr Richardson said:—“Now, I suppose you and your friends have decided that I am to give you high tea at the ‘George’—eh?”“Thanks,” said Dick, who had had a dim prospect of the kind.“Well, I’ll come up to the school and see if I can get Dr Winter to give you leave.”“Dr Winter doesn’t know about Tom White’s boat, you know,” said the boy, as they walked up. “I didn’t like to tell him.”Dr Winter was easily persuaded to allow the “Firm” to spend the evening with Mr Richardson at the “George.”The small party which assembled that evening at the table of the worthy paterfamilias did not certainly look like one over which hung the shadow of “transportation.” The talk was of “Tubs” and Harriers, of tennis and “Sociables,” of Virgil and Euclid; and as the first shyness of their introduction wore off, the “Firm” settled down to as jovial an evening as they had spent for a long time.Only once did the shadow of their “row” return, when Mr Richardson, at eight o’clock, said:—“Now, boys, good-night. I have a solicitor coming here directly.”“About the trial, father?” asked Dick, with falling countenance.“Yes, my boy. As the case comes on to-morrow, there is no time to be lost.”There certainly was not; and Mr Richardson, before he went to bed that night had not only seen a good many persons, but had materially lightened his pockets.Buying off the law, even in the most straightforward way, is an expensive luxury. The prosecutors, of Tom White, seeing that their victim had an unexpected backer, became very righteous and high-principled indeed. They could not think of withdrawing the case. It was a public duty—painful, of course, but not to be shirked. It pained them very much to bring trouble on any one, particularly an old shipmate; but they owed it to society to see he got his deserts.They were, of course, wholly unaware of Mr Richardson’s special interest in the matter. Otherwise, they might have been even more virtuous and high-principled than they were. They looked upon him as a benevolent individual, bent on getting the half-witted vagabond out of trouble, and, as such, they knew quite enough of fishing to see that he was in their net.Their own solicitor, too, knew something about this sort of fishing, and the unfortunate father spent a very unhappy morning floundering about in the net these gentlemen provided for him—extremely doubtful whether, after all, he would not be obliged publicly to incriminate his son, in order to solve the difficulty.However, by dint of great exertion, he contrived to get the case adjourned for three days more. The prosecutors were, of course, shocked to see the course of the law delayed for even this length of time. It meant expense to them, as well as inconvenience. Of course Mr Richardson had to act up to this broad hint, and promising, further, not to make any attempt to bail their prisoner, he obtained their reluctant consent to a postponement till Wednesday, greatly to the disgust, among other persons, of Duffield and Raggles, who, mindful of their pleasant morning last Saturday, had come down with another five-pennyworth of chocolate creams, to watch the case again.“Beastly soak it was,” said Raggles that afternoon, to Dick, who, acting on parental orders, had abstained with the “Firm” from visiting the Court. “They say there’s some idiot come all the way from London to stop the case. I’d like to kick him. What business has he to come and spoil our fun?”“Look here!” said Dick, with a sudden warmth which quite took away the breath of Master Raggles. “Shut up, and hold your row, unless you want to be chucked out of the Quad.”“What on earth is the row with you?” asked the astounded Raggles.“Never you mind. Hook it!” retorted Dick.Raggles departed, not quite sure whether Dick had not had too much “swipes” for dinner, or whether his run after the Harriers yesterday had not been too much for his wits.Dick felt rather blue that afternoon as he watched the train which carried his father steam out of Templeton station.He had somehow expected that this visit would settle everything. But instead of doing that, Mr Richardson had left Templeton almost as anxious as when he entered it. Dick couldn’t make it out, and he returned rather dismally to Templeton.Here, however, he had plenty to distract his attention. The fame of the “Firm’s” exploit on the previous day was still a nine days’ wonder in the Den, and he might, had he been so inclined, have spent the afternoon in discoursing to an admiring audience of his achievement. But he was not so minded. He was more in the humour for a football scrimmage, and as to-day was the first practice day of the season, he strolled off to the fields, and relieved his feelings and recovered his spirits in an hour’s energetic onslaught on the long-suffering ball.Rather to his surprise, Georgie did not join him in this occupation. That young gentleman, to tell the truth, was very particularly engaged elsewhere.His proceedings during the last few days had not been unnoticed by his old patron, Pledge.That senior, after his unceremonious deposition from the monitorship by Mansfield, had been considerably exercised in his mind how to hold up his head with dignity in Templeton.He was acute enough to see that his chief offence in the eyes of these enemies had been, not open rebellion, or a flagrant breach of rules, but his influence over the juniors with whom he came into contact.Over George Heathcote’s soul, especially, he saw that a great battle had been waged, and was still waging, in which, somehow or other, the two great parties of Templeton seemed involved.So far, the battle had gradually gone against Pledge. Just when he had considered the youngster his own, he had been quietly snatched off by Dick, and before he could be recovered, the monitors had stepped in and taken Dick’s side, and left him, Pledge, discomfited, and a laughing-stock to Templeton.Had they? Pledge chuckled to himself, as he thought of Mr Webster’s pencil, and of the toils in which, as he flattered himself, he still held both Heathcote and Dick. They were sure of their darling littleprotégés, were they? Not so sure, reflected Pledge, as they think. They might even yet sue for terms, when they found that by a single word he could change the lodgings of the two sweet babes from Templeton to the county jail.He, therefore, in moderately cheerful spirits, allowed a day or two to pass, avoiding even a further visit to Webster; and then casually waylaid his old fag as he was returning, decidedly depressed in mind, from saying good-bye to Mr Richardson.“Why, Georgie, old man,” said Pledge, “how festive you look! The change of air from my study to Swinstead’s has done you good. Where have you been all the morning?”“I’ve just come up from the town,” said Heathcote, wishing he could get away.“Ah, trying to square somebody up, eh? It’s not quite as easy as one might think; is it?”Heathcote looked doubtfully up at his old senior’s face, and said nothing.“It’s a wonder to me, you know,” said Pledge, turning his back and looking out of the window, “that your new angelic friends don’t somehow do it for you. There’s Mansfield, you know. One word from his lips would do the business. Everyone knows he never did anything low.”“Mansfield never speaks to me,” said Georgie, more for the sake of saying something than because he considered the fact important.“Really! How ungrateful of him, when you have been the means of enabling him to kick me out of the Sixth. Very ungrateful!”“I never had anything to do with that,” said Georgie.“No! You don’t, then, believe a fellow can make use of you without your knowing it. You can’t imagine Mansfield saying to his dear friends, ‘I’d give anything to get at that wicked Pledge, but I daren’t do it straight out. So I must pretend to be deeply interested in that little prig, Heathcote, and much concerned lest he should be corrupted by his wicked senior. That will be a fine excuse for having a slap at Pledge. I’ll take away his fag, and then, of course, he’ll resign, and we shall get rid of him!’”“I don’t believe he really said that,” said Heathcote, colouring up.“‘And then,’ he would say, ‘to bribe the youngster over, and keep him from spoiling all and going back to his old senior, we’ll manage to fool him about our precious new Club, and put his name on the list.’”This was rousing Georgie on a tender point.“If my name gets on the list, it will be because Dick and Coote and I ran through the hunt; that’s why!” he said, rather fiercely.“Ha, ha! If they could only humbug everybody as easily as they do you. So you are really going to get into the Club?”“I’ll try, if our names get on the list.”“And you think they are sure to elect you? Of course you’ve done nothing to disgrace Templeton, eh?”The boy’s face fell, and Pledge followed up his hit.“They’d like you all the better, wouldn’t they, if they heard you and your precious friends are—well, quite a matter of interest to the Templeton police; eh, my boy?”“We’re not,” stammered Georgie, very red. “You needn’t say anything about that, Pledge.”“Is it likely? Don’t I owe you too much already for cutting me, and talking of me behind my back, and letting the monitors make a catspaw of you to hurt me? Oh, no! I’ve no interest in telling anybody!”“Really, Pledge, I never talked of you behind your back, and all that. I didn’t mean to cut you. Please don’t go telling everybody. It’s bad enough as it is.”Pledge chuckled to himself, and began to get his tea-pot out of his cupboard.“You see I have to help myself now,” said he.Georgie’s heart was touched. What with dread of the possible mischief Pledge could do him, and with a certain amount of self-reproach at his desertion, he felt the least he could do would be to fall into his old ways for this one evening.It was just what Pledge wanted. How he longed that Mansfield and Cresswell and Freckleton could all have been there to see it.“Mansfield is hardly likely to trouble his head about every errand even such an important personage as you run,” said he, in reply to one feeble protest from the boy. “Call yourself Swinstead’s fag by all means. You can still fag for me. However, it doesn’t matter to me. I can get on well enough without.”“Oh, yes, I’ll try,” said Georgie.That was enough. Pledge felt that too much might overdo it. So with this triumph he dismissed his youthful perturbedprotégéfor the night, and dreamed sweetly of the wrath of his enemies, when they discovered that after all he (Pledge) was master of the situation in spite of them.

Dear Father,—Please come down here as soon as you can. We’re in a regular row. I’m awfully afraid fifty pounds will not quite cover it.Please try and come by the next train as the case comes on on Saturday, and there’s not much time. We saw the magistrate yesterday, and made a clean breast. I hope they won’t transport us. He was very jolly helping us find the scent, and gave us a stunning lunch. We ran the big hunt right through, and are pretty sure to get our names on the “Sociables” list. I wish you and mother could have seen the view on the top of Welkin Beacon. The awkward thing is that Tom White may get transported instead of us, and it would be jolly if you could come and get him off. Coote wasn’t in it, but he’s backing us up. How is Tike? I hope they wash him regularly. If I’m not transported, I shall be home in eight weeks and three days and will take him out for walks.Love to mother, in which all join,—Your affectionate son, Basil.P.S.—If you come, don’t take Fegan’s cab—he’s a cheat. Old White will drive you cheap. He’s Tom’s father. Georgie sends his love.

Dear Father,—Please come down here as soon as you can. We’re in a regular row. I’m awfully afraid fifty pounds will not quite cover it.

Please try and come by the next train as the case comes on on Saturday, and there’s not much time. We saw the magistrate yesterday, and made a clean breast. I hope they won’t transport us. He was very jolly helping us find the scent, and gave us a stunning lunch. We ran the big hunt right through, and are pretty sure to get our names on the “Sociables” list. I wish you and mother could have seen the view on the top of Welkin Beacon. The awkward thing is that Tom White may get transported instead of us, and it would be jolly if you could come and get him off. Coote wasn’t in it, but he’s backing us up. How is Tike? I hope they wash him regularly. If I’m not transported, I shall be home in eight weeks and three days and will take him out for walks.

Love to mother, in which all join,—Your affectionate son, Basil.

P.S.—If you come, don’t take Fegan’s cab—he’s a cheat. Old White will drive you cheap. He’s Tom’s father. Georgie sends his love.

The reader may imagine, if he can, the consternation with which Mr and Mrs Richardson read this loving epistle at breakfast on the Friday morning following the great hunt.

They gazed at one another with countenances full of horror and terror, like people suddenly brought face to face with a great calamity. At length Mr Richardson said:—

“Where’s the Bradshaw, Jane?”

“Oh, the train goes in half an hour. You have just time to catch it. Do go quickly. My poor, poor boy!”

The father groaned; and in another five minutes he was on his way to the station.

That morning, while school was in full swing, the porter entered the third class room with a telegram in his hand, which he took straight to the master.

“Richardson,” said the master, “this is for you.”

Dick, who was at the moment engaged in drawing a circle on his Euclid cover with a pencil and a piece of string, much to the admiration of his neighbours, jumped up as if he had been shot, and with perturbed face went up to receive the missive.

He tore it open, and, as he glanced at its contents, his anxious face relaxed into a complacent grin.

“From G. Richardson, London. I shall reach Templeton at 3:5 this afternoon. Meet me, if you can.”

“Huzzah, Georgie!” said he, as he returned to his seat. “Father’s coming down by the 3:5. Let’s all go and meet him.”

The “Firm” said they would, and, accordingly, that afternoon after dinner the trio sallied forth in great spirits and good-humour to give the anxious father a reception.

With the easy memory of youth, they forgot all about the probable object of his visit; or, if they remembered it, it was with a sort of passing feeling of relief that the Tom White “row” was now as good as over—at any rate, as far as they were concerned.

When Mr Richardson, haggard and anxious, descended from the carriage, it was a decided shock to encounter the beaming countenance of his son and hear his light-hearted greeting.

“Hullo, father—jolly you’ve come! Old White’s cab is bagged, but Swisher’s got a good horse to go. Here’s Georgie and Coote—you know.”

The bewildered gentleman greeted his son’s friends kindly, and then, disclaiming all intention of taking anybody’s cab, drew his son aside.

“What is all this, my boy? Your mother and I almost broke our hearts over your letter.”

“Oh, it’s all serene—really, father,” said the boy, a little disturbed by his father’s anxious tones. “We really wouldn’t have sent if the magistrate hadn’t said we’d better—would we, Georgie?”

“No; he said that was our only chance,” replied Georgie.

“If your two friends will take my bag up to the ‘George,’” said Mr Richardson, despairing of getting any lucid information out of the “Firm” as a body, “I should like a walk with you, Basil, on the strand.”

Coote and Georgie departed with the bag, and the father and son being left alone, Dick gave a simple and unvarnished narrative of the legal difficulties in which he and his friends were involved.

Mr Richardson’s heart beat lighter as he heard it. The scrape was bad enough, but it was not as bad as he had imagined, nor was the foolish boy at his side the monster of iniquity his letter had almost implied. They had a long talk, those two, that afternoon as they paced the hard, dry strand at the water’s edge and watched the waves tumbling in from the sea. They talked about far more than Tom White and his boat. Dick’s heart, once opened, poured into his father’s ears the story of all his trials and temptations, and hopes and disappointments, at Templeton.

The narration did him good. It cleared and strengthened his mind wonderfully. It humbled him to discover in how many things he had been wrong, and in how many foolish; and it comforted him to feel that his father understood him and judged him fairly.

It was late in the afternoon when their walk came to an end. Then Mr Richardson said:—

“Now, I suppose you and your friends have decided that I am to give you high tea at the ‘George’—eh?”

“Thanks,” said Dick, who had had a dim prospect of the kind.

“Well, I’ll come up to the school and see if I can get Dr Winter to give you leave.”

“Dr Winter doesn’t know about Tom White’s boat, you know,” said the boy, as they walked up. “I didn’t like to tell him.”

Dr Winter was easily persuaded to allow the “Firm” to spend the evening with Mr Richardson at the “George.”

The small party which assembled that evening at the table of the worthy paterfamilias did not certainly look like one over which hung the shadow of “transportation.” The talk was of “Tubs” and Harriers, of tennis and “Sociables,” of Virgil and Euclid; and as the first shyness of their introduction wore off, the “Firm” settled down to as jovial an evening as they had spent for a long time.

Only once did the shadow of their “row” return, when Mr Richardson, at eight o’clock, said:—

“Now, boys, good-night. I have a solicitor coming here directly.”

“About the trial, father?” asked Dick, with falling countenance.

“Yes, my boy. As the case comes on to-morrow, there is no time to be lost.”

There certainly was not; and Mr Richardson, before he went to bed that night had not only seen a good many persons, but had materially lightened his pockets.

Buying off the law, even in the most straightforward way, is an expensive luxury. The prosecutors, of Tom White, seeing that their victim had an unexpected backer, became very righteous and high-principled indeed. They could not think of withdrawing the case. It was a public duty—painful, of course, but not to be shirked. It pained them very much to bring trouble on any one, particularly an old shipmate; but they owed it to society to see he got his deserts.

They were, of course, wholly unaware of Mr Richardson’s special interest in the matter. Otherwise, they might have been even more virtuous and high-principled than they were. They looked upon him as a benevolent individual, bent on getting the half-witted vagabond out of trouble, and, as such, they knew quite enough of fishing to see that he was in their net.

Their own solicitor, too, knew something about this sort of fishing, and the unfortunate father spent a very unhappy morning floundering about in the net these gentlemen provided for him—extremely doubtful whether, after all, he would not be obliged publicly to incriminate his son, in order to solve the difficulty.

However, by dint of great exertion, he contrived to get the case adjourned for three days more. The prosecutors were, of course, shocked to see the course of the law delayed for even this length of time. It meant expense to them, as well as inconvenience. Of course Mr Richardson had to act up to this broad hint, and promising, further, not to make any attempt to bail their prisoner, he obtained their reluctant consent to a postponement till Wednesday, greatly to the disgust, among other persons, of Duffield and Raggles, who, mindful of their pleasant morning last Saturday, had come down with another five-pennyworth of chocolate creams, to watch the case again.

“Beastly soak it was,” said Raggles that afternoon, to Dick, who, acting on parental orders, had abstained with the “Firm” from visiting the Court. “They say there’s some idiot come all the way from London to stop the case. I’d like to kick him. What business has he to come and spoil our fun?”

“Look here!” said Dick, with a sudden warmth which quite took away the breath of Master Raggles. “Shut up, and hold your row, unless you want to be chucked out of the Quad.”

“What on earth is the row with you?” asked the astounded Raggles.

“Never you mind. Hook it!” retorted Dick.

Raggles departed, not quite sure whether Dick had not had too much “swipes” for dinner, or whether his run after the Harriers yesterday had not been too much for his wits.

Dick felt rather blue that afternoon as he watched the train which carried his father steam out of Templeton station.

He had somehow expected that this visit would settle everything. But instead of doing that, Mr Richardson had left Templeton almost as anxious as when he entered it. Dick couldn’t make it out, and he returned rather dismally to Templeton.

Here, however, he had plenty to distract his attention. The fame of the “Firm’s” exploit on the previous day was still a nine days’ wonder in the Den, and he might, had he been so inclined, have spent the afternoon in discoursing to an admiring audience of his achievement. But he was not so minded. He was more in the humour for a football scrimmage, and as to-day was the first practice day of the season, he strolled off to the fields, and relieved his feelings and recovered his spirits in an hour’s energetic onslaught on the long-suffering ball.

Rather to his surprise, Georgie did not join him in this occupation. That young gentleman, to tell the truth, was very particularly engaged elsewhere.

His proceedings during the last few days had not been unnoticed by his old patron, Pledge.

That senior, after his unceremonious deposition from the monitorship by Mansfield, had been considerably exercised in his mind how to hold up his head with dignity in Templeton.

He was acute enough to see that his chief offence in the eyes of these enemies had been, not open rebellion, or a flagrant breach of rules, but his influence over the juniors with whom he came into contact.

Over George Heathcote’s soul, especially, he saw that a great battle had been waged, and was still waging, in which, somehow or other, the two great parties of Templeton seemed involved.

So far, the battle had gradually gone against Pledge. Just when he had considered the youngster his own, he had been quietly snatched off by Dick, and before he could be recovered, the monitors had stepped in and taken Dick’s side, and left him, Pledge, discomfited, and a laughing-stock to Templeton.

Had they? Pledge chuckled to himself, as he thought of Mr Webster’s pencil, and of the toils in which, as he flattered himself, he still held both Heathcote and Dick. They were sure of their darling littleprotégés, were they? Not so sure, reflected Pledge, as they think. They might even yet sue for terms, when they found that by a single word he could change the lodgings of the two sweet babes from Templeton to the county jail.

He, therefore, in moderately cheerful spirits, allowed a day or two to pass, avoiding even a further visit to Webster; and then casually waylaid his old fag as he was returning, decidedly depressed in mind, from saying good-bye to Mr Richardson.

“Why, Georgie, old man,” said Pledge, “how festive you look! The change of air from my study to Swinstead’s has done you good. Where have you been all the morning?”

“I’ve just come up from the town,” said Heathcote, wishing he could get away.

“Ah, trying to square somebody up, eh? It’s not quite as easy as one might think; is it?”

Heathcote looked doubtfully up at his old senior’s face, and said nothing.

“It’s a wonder to me, you know,” said Pledge, turning his back and looking out of the window, “that your new angelic friends don’t somehow do it for you. There’s Mansfield, you know. One word from his lips would do the business. Everyone knows he never did anything low.”

“Mansfield never speaks to me,” said Georgie, more for the sake of saying something than because he considered the fact important.

“Really! How ungrateful of him, when you have been the means of enabling him to kick me out of the Sixth. Very ungrateful!”

“I never had anything to do with that,” said Georgie.

“No! You don’t, then, believe a fellow can make use of you without your knowing it. You can’t imagine Mansfield saying to his dear friends, ‘I’d give anything to get at that wicked Pledge, but I daren’t do it straight out. So I must pretend to be deeply interested in that little prig, Heathcote, and much concerned lest he should be corrupted by his wicked senior. That will be a fine excuse for having a slap at Pledge. I’ll take away his fag, and then, of course, he’ll resign, and we shall get rid of him!’”

“I don’t believe he really said that,” said Heathcote, colouring up.

“‘And then,’ he would say, ‘to bribe the youngster over, and keep him from spoiling all and going back to his old senior, we’ll manage to fool him about our precious new Club, and put his name on the list.’”

This was rousing Georgie on a tender point.

“If my name gets on the list, it will be because Dick and Coote and I ran through the hunt; that’s why!” he said, rather fiercely.

“Ha, ha! If they could only humbug everybody as easily as they do you. So you are really going to get into the Club?”

“I’ll try, if our names get on the list.”

“And you think they are sure to elect you? Of course you’ve done nothing to disgrace Templeton, eh?”

The boy’s face fell, and Pledge followed up his hit.

“They’d like you all the better, wouldn’t they, if they heard you and your precious friends are—well, quite a matter of interest to the Templeton police; eh, my boy?”

“We’re not,” stammered Georgie, very red. “You needn’t say anything about that, Pledge.”

“Is it likely? Don’t I owe you too much already for cutting me, and talking of me behind my back, and letting the monitors make a catspaw of you to hurt me? Oh, no! I’ve no interest in telling anybody!”

“Really, Pledge, I never talked of you behind your back, and all that. I didn’t mean to cut you. Please don’t go telling everybody. It’s bad enough as it is.”

Pledge chuckled to himself, and began to get his tea-pot out of his cupboard.

“You see I have to help myself now,” said he.

Georgie’s heart was touched. What with dread of the possible mischief Pledge could do him, and with a certain amount of self-reproach at his desertion, he felt the least he could do would be to fall into his old ways for this one evening.

It was just what Pledge wanted. How he longed that Mansfield and Cresswell and Freckleton could all have been there to see it.

“Mansfield is hardly likely to trouble his head about every errand even such an important personage as you run,” said he, in reply to one feeble protest from the boy. “Call yourself Swinstead’s fag by all means. You can still fag for me. However, it doesn’t matter to me. I can get on well enough without.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll try,” said Georgie.

That was enough. Pledge felt that too much might overdo it. So with this triumph he dismissed his youthful perturbedprotégéfor the night, and dreamed sweetly of the wrath of his enemies, when they discovered that after all he (Pledge) was master of the situation in spite of them.

Chapter Twenty Seven.How the “Martha” comes home to her bereaved friends.Pledge did well to sleep sweetly and enjoy his triumph while it lasted, for the battle which raged over the soul of George Heathcote was by no means ended yet.“I say, Georgie,” said Dick, next day, as the “Firm” took a Sunday afternoon stroll along the cliffs. “Where on earth did you get to yesterday? You never turned up at football practice, and skulked all the evening.”Georgie coloured. His conscience had already smitten him for detaching himself from his leader at a time of danger like the present; still more, for deserting him for a fellow like Pledge.One result of Dick’s sovereignty had been that the “Firm” had contracted a habit of telling the truth to one another on all occasions. It was found to be the shortest cut to friendship, and a vast saving of time and trouble.Georgie, therefore, however much his inclination, as moulded by Pledge, may have led him to prevaricate, replied, “I was in Pledge’s study.”Dick whistled, rather a dismayed whistle.“I thought you were out of that,” he said.“So did I; but, I don’t know, Dick. He’s got to know all about our row, and if I don’t be civil to him he’ll let out on us.”“How does he know? Who’s told him?”“I never did,” said Coote.“I can’t fancy how he heard. But he knows all about it, and he as good as says he’ll spoil our chance for the ‘Sociables’ if I don’t fag for him.”“Beastly cad!” murmured Dick.“He says, you know,” pursued George, “that it was all a spite of Mansfield’s against him—that making me Swinstead’s fag. They knew it would make him resign. It is rather low, isn’t it, to humbug me about just for the sake of spiting someone else?”“It’s all a lie, Georgie. Pledge is one of the biggest cads in Templeton. I heard lots of people say so. Webster said so. He says he’d no more let a boy of his go near Pledge than he’d fly; and Webster’s not particular.”“And I heard Cartwright say,” said Coote, by way of assisting the discussion, “that Pledge has done his best to make a cad of you, and nearly succeeded.”“He said that?” said Georgie, hotly; “like his cheek! Has he done so, Dick?”“Not much,” said Dick, frankly.“I don’t feel myself a cad,” said poor Heathcote.“Perhaps fellows can’t always tell, themselves,” said Coote.There was a pause after this, and the “Firm” walked on for some distance in silence. Then Dick said:“You’ll have to jack him up, Georgie, that’s all about it.”“But I tell you he’ll let out on us,” pleaded Georgie, “and really I’ve only said I’ll fag now and then for him.”“Can’t help, Georgie; We don’t want to have you made a cad of. It would smash up our ‘Firm,’ wouldn’t it, Coote?”“Rather,” said Coote.“Besides,” said Dick, “he’s such a cad, no one would believe him if he did tell of us. My father would shut him up. He’ll be down, you know, on Tuesday.”Heathcote breathed hard. But when it came to a question of choosing between Pledge and the “Firm,” it needed no very desperate inward battle to decide.“What had I better do?” he asked.“Cut him,” said Dick.“But suppose I’ve promised him?”“That’s a nuisance. Never mind, we’re all in it, so we’ll send him a letter from the ‘Firm’ and tell him you cry off. It’s a bad job, of course, but it can’t be helped, and we’ll back you up, won’t we, Coote?”“I should rather say so,” replied the genial junior partner.So, that quiet Sunday afternoon, in an unpretentious and unsentimental way, a very good stroke of work was done, not only for the soul of Georgie Heathcote, but for Templeton generally.The “Firm” were by no means elated at their decision, for they had yet to learn what revenge the senior would take upon them. Still, the effort and the common peril knit them together in bonds of closer brotherhood, and enabled them to face the future, if not cheerily, at least, with grim determination.Pledge was considerably astounded that evening, just as he was speculating on the reason of Heathcote’s non-appearance, to see Coote’s round head suddenly thrust in at the door, and a small billet tossed on to the table.Pledge was getting used to small billets by this time, and was rather tired of them. Coote, as he knew, was Cartwright’s fag; he therefore concluded that Cartwright was the writer of the note, and that being so, he pitched the paper unopened into the empty fireplace with a sneer.He waited for another half-hour, and still Heathcote did not appear. Pledge didn’t like it, and began to grow concerned. Was it possible, after all, he had made too sure of his young friend?Partly to pass the time, and partly with the vague idea that might throw some light on the matter, he had the curiosity to pick the neglected billet out of the hearth and open it.His face went through a strange series of emotions as he read its extraordinary contents:—Our Dear Pledge,—We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can’t fag for you. He doesn’t believe he really promised, but must be excused. We’ve made him do it because we don’t want him to be made a cad. He is very sorry, and hopes you won’t be a cad and let out about the row we are in. Excuse this short letter, and, with kind regards, believe us, our dear Pledge, your affectionate young friends, B. Richardson, G. Heathcote, A.D. Coote. Sunday afternoon.This masterpiece of conciliatory firmness, which had cost the “Firm” an hour’s painful labour to concoct, brought out the angry spots on Pledge’s cheeks and forced some bad language from his lips.The letter he had received from Mansfield a week ago had been nothing to this. Mansfield and he were equals, and a reverse at Mansfield’s hands was at least an ordinary misfortune of war.But to be coolly flouted, and to have all the work of a term upset by three wretched youngsters, who called themselves his affectionate young friends, was a drop too much in the bucket of the “spider’s” humiliation.He stared at the letter in a stupid way, like one bewildered. Even its quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a sneer on his lips. Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion had reached its climax.If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr Webster’s pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not to be impatient. Wednesday was to be the great election for the “Sociables,” and, if our heroes’ names appeared on the list, as rumour already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till then.So he sat down, and acknowledged the “Firm’s” note as follows:—My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,—Pray do as you like. Promises are never made to be kept by “Select Sociables” of your high character. I do not understand what you mean about your row. What row are you in?Areyou in a row? You don’t call that little matter that I am expecting to talk to the “Sociables” about on Wednesday a row, do you? Please give my kind regards to Georgie Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him to lay my cloth. No doubt he has given you many interesting stories of the miserable week he spent with me last holidays in London. I’m not surprised at his turning against me after that. I hope I shall not have to tell anyone some of the stories he has told me of Richardson and Coote. Excuse this long letter, and believe me, my dear young jail-birds, your “affectionate” P. Pledge.This bitter effusion was read next morning by the “Firm” as they walked down to the “Tub.” Its full sting did not come out till after three or four careful perusals, and then the “Firm” looked blankly at one another with lengthened faces.“I couldn’t believe any fellow could be such a cad,” said Dick.“It’s jolly awkward!” said Heathcote. “You know he was awfully civil to me in London, and it does seem low to be cutting him now.”“Civil, be hanged!” said Dick. “He tried to get hold of you to make a cad of you, that’s what he did; and you were precious near being one, too, when you came back, weren’t you?”“Was I?” asked the humble Georgie.“Rather,” said Coote; “everybody said so.”“Well, of course,” said Georgie, “if that’s what he was driving at, it doesn’t matter so much.”“Except that it makes him all the bigger a cad.”“What on earth shall we do about the other thing?” asked Georgie.“The row? We must cheek it, that’s all. If he does us over the ‘Sociable’ election, we can’t be helped.”“And suppose he gets us transported?”“Can’t do it, I tell you; my father will be up here, you know.”There was a pause, and the “Firm” walked on. Then Georgie said:—“I say, what does he mean about the stories I told about you and Coote. I never told any stories, that I remember. I never had any to tell.”“Ah, I was wondering what that meant,” said Dick. “He speaks as if you’d been blabbing all sorts of things.”“I really don’t think I ever did,” said Heathcote, ransacking his memory. “I may have said once I thought Coote was rather an ass, but that was all.”“What made you tell him that?” said Coote.“He asked me if I didn’t think so,” said Georgie, apologetically, “and of course I was bound to say what I thought.”“Rather,” said Coote.“But he’s telling crams about you, Dick,” said Georgie; “I’m quite sure of that. He used to try and make out you were a sneak and a prig; and perhaps I believed him once or twice, but that was while I was a cad, you know.”“Oh, yes, that’s all right!” said Dick, putting his arm in that of his friend.Pledge would have had very little consolation out of this short discussion, and if for the next two days he sat up in his study expecting that every footstep belonged to the “Firm” on its way to capitulate, he must have been sorely disappointed. Capitulation was the one consideration which had never once entered the heads of the honest fraternity.That afternoon the town of Templeton was startled by an incident, which had it come to the ears of our heroes, as they sat and groaned over their “Select Dialogues of the Dead,” would have effectually driven every letter of the Greek alphabet out of their heads for the time being.The event was nothing else but the arrival in port of the collier brig,Hail! Columbiawith a cargo of coals from the Tyne, andmirabile dictu! with theMarthalying comfortably, bottom upwards, safe and sound, on her deck.The collier, according to the account of the skipper, had been running across the head of the bay on the 5th of June last, in half a cap of wind from the shore, when it sighted theMarthadrifting empty out to sea. Having sent one of his men after her to capture her, and being convinced by the absence of oars or tackle that she must have drifted from her moorings empty, he took her on board; and, as he was bound to deliver his cargo by a certain day, and the wind being against his putting into Templeton, he stowed his prize comfortably away amidships, where she had been ever since, awaiting his next call at Templeton.With the free-and-easy business ways of his craft, he had neglected to send any letter or message announcing the safety of theMarthato her afflicted friends; and having been detained in this place and that by stress of weather or business, he had now, after more than three months’ absence, his first opportunity of restoring the lost property to its rightful owner.If the simple fishermen of Templeton had been inclined to believe in miracles, the strange reappearance of the missingMarthaat this particular time must have savoured of something of the sort. But being matter-of-fact folk, they contented themselves with lounging round the boat as she lay once more on the beach, staring at her, and wondering between their whiffs what the solicitors and judges would say now.The skipper of theHail! Columbiahad neither the time nor the patience to discover who just now was the lawful owner of the boat. Some said Tom White; some said Tom White’s partners; some said the pawnbroker.The master disposed the problem off his mind very simply by setting down theMarthaon the beach, and letting those who chose to claim her settle their squabble among themselves.The news of the return of the prodigal was not long in spreading; and by the time the Templeton boys came down for their afternoon bathe it was common property.Our heroes heard it in the water, from Raggles, and immediately landed and dressed. They scarcely exchanged a word till they stood at the side of theMartha, where she lay in almost the same spot where two of them had seen her three-and-a-half months ago. Then Dick said:—“Think of her turning up at last!”“I half guessed she would,” said Georgie, “though I never expected it. I say, this settles our row, doesn’t it?”“Pretty well. But of course Tom White may catch it for pawning the boat. He collared the money, you know.”“Ah, but that’s not got much to do with us,” said Heathcote.“Well,” said Dick, “we ought to back him right up, while we are at it. Besides, you know, we may still get into a row for letting her go, though shehasturned up.”Altogether the “Firm” were not very sure how far their position was improved by the recovery of theMartha. If Pledge, or any one, chose to tell tales, or if they themselves, in order to extricate Tom White, had to tell tales of themselves, all might yet go wrong. The one good thing, they decided, was that Mr Richardson, when he came to-morrow, would be saved the expense of buying at least one new boat for somebody.Our heroes, as in duty bound, were at the station to meet the 3:5 train, and give the worthy paterfamilias a reception.“Hullo, father,” cried Dick, as if he had only parted with his parent five minutes ago, “they’ve found her, I say. Do you see that two-masted collier in the harbour? She picked her up, the day after we slipped her. Isn’t it jolly?”Mr Richardson certainly looked surprised, and a trifle relieved; but the matter did not yet occur to him in a “jolly” light.“It’s a good thing she has come back,” said he; “and now, as I have a great deal to do, I’ll say good-bye for the present. I have sent a note to Doctor Winter, to ask him to let you breakfast with me at the ‘George,’ in the morning.”“Thanks, awfully, sir,” said Coote, beaming all over.Mr Richardson laughed.“I’m afraid I only mentioned Basil in my note,” said he, “but I daresay we shall be able to have a meal together later in the day. Good-bye.”“Rather cool cheek of you, Coote,” said Dick, as the “Firm” returned to the school, “cadging my father that way for breakfast.”“Very sorry,” said Coote, humbly. “I thought we were all in it, that’s all.”The evening passed anxiously for the boys, and no less so for poor Mr Richardson, who was buffeted about from pillar to post, from lawyer to lawyer, from boatman to pawnbroker, in his honest efforts to extricate his son from his scrape.The recovery of theMartha, he found, made very little improvement in his prospects. For now she had come back, everybody seemed to be calculating the amount of money she would have brought in had she remained at Templeton during the busy season. This loss was estimated at several times the value of the boat, and the high-principled prosecutors would hear no suggestion of withdrawing the case until each one of them—partners, pawnbroker, and all—had been refunded the entire sum.Then, when that was done, the lawyers pulled their bills out of their desks, and hinted that some one would have to settle them; and as neither the partners, nor the pawnbroker, nor Tom White, saw their way to doing so, Mr Richardson had to draw his own inferences and settle them himself. Then, when all seemed settled, the police recollected that they had had considerable trouble in looking after the case. They had made several journeys, and spent several hours on the beach looking out for the supposed thief. They had also had charge of Tom White for a fortnight; and what with postages, telegrams, and office fees, they were decidedly out of pocket over the whole business.The long-suffering father put them in pocket, and after subscribing to several local charities, and consoling the reporters of theTempleton Observerand other such outsiders, he retired, jaded, but comforted, to the “George,” feeling that if his mission had been successful, it had cost him an amount of generosity which he could hardly have believed was in him.When Dick, “with shining morning face,” presented himself next morning for breakfast, he little imagined how much of his father’s money was at that moment scattered about in Templeton.“Huzza! father,” said he, when his parent presented himself in the coffee-room. “Such a game! Cresswell says he’ll give us his study this evening, so our ‘Firm’s’ going to give you a spread. Coote and Georgie are out ordering the tucker now—kidneys and tea-cake. I asked Winter when I went for myexeatif we might have you, and he said, ‘Yes; he’d be very glad.’ Mind you come. It’ll be a stunning spread, and Georgie and Coote are sure to pick out good things. I wish mother could come too.”In the face of this hospitable outburst, Mr Richardson could hardly expatiate on the cost and anxiety of his mission to Templeton. A calmer moment must do for that. Meanwhile he delighted his son’s heart by accepting his invitation on the spot.He allowed Dick and his two friends, if it fitted in with school rules, to be present in the Court to hear the end of Tom White’s case—a permission they were not slow to avail themselves of, although this time they occupied a modest seat at the back, and attempted no public manifestations of encouragement to the prisoner in court.The case ended very simply. When it was called on, and Tom, as friendly as ever, was ushered into the box, no one appeared to accuse him, and the magistrates, rightly concluding this to mean that the prosecution had retired, dismissed the case accordingly.Tom said, “Thank’ee, sir,” and looked quite bewildered on being told he might walk out of court a free man.Our heroes, who had already got outside before he reached the door, deemed it their duty to complete their efforts in his favour by congratulating him on his escape.“Jolly glad we are, Tom White,” said Dick, as the worthy mariner came towards them. “It was hard lines for you, and it wasn’t all your fault. It’s my father got you off, you know.”“Thank’ee, young gentleman. It’s very hard on a hard-working mariner not to have his living. If you could spare a trifle and tell the gentlemen, I’d thank you kindly.”“We haven’t got any tin to spare now,” said Dick, who knew that the resources of the “Firm” had been well-nigh exhausted in preparation for the spread in Cresswell’s study that evening; “but we won’t forget. Good-bye, old man. Jolly glad you’ve got out at last!”

Pledge did well to sleep sweetly and enjoy his triumph while it lasted, for the battle which raged over the soul of George Heathcote was by no means ended yet.

“I say, Georgie,” said Dick, next day, as the “Firm” took a Sunday afternoon stroll along the cliffs. “Where on earth did you get to yesterday? You never turned up at football practice, and skulked all the evening.”

Georgie coloured. His conscience had already smitten him for detaching himself from his leader at a time of danger like the present; still more, for deserting him for a fellow like Pledge.

One result of Dick’s sovereignty had been that the “Firm” had contracted a habit of telling the truth to one another on all occasions. It was found to be the shortest cut to friendship, and a vast saving of time and trouble.

Georgie, therefore, however much his inclination, as moulded by Pledge, may have led him to prevaricate, replied, “I was in Pledge’s study.”

Dick whistled, rather a dismayed whistle.

“I thought you were out of that,” he said.

“So did I; but, I don’t know, Dick. He’s got to know all about our row, and if I don’t be civil to him he’ll let out on us.”

“How does he know? Who’s told him?”

“I never did,” said Coote.

“I can’t fancy how he heard. But he knows all about it, and he as good as says he’ll spoil our chance for the ‘Sociables’ if I don’t fag for him.”

“Beastly cad!” murmured Dick.

“He says, you know,” pursued George, “that it was all a spite of Mansfield’s against him—that making me Swinstead’s fag. They knew it would make him resign. It is rather low, isn’t it, to humbug me about just for the sake of spiting someone else?”

“It’s all a lie, Georgie. Pledge is one of the biggest cads in Templeton. I heard lots of people say so. Webster said so. He says he’d no more let a boy of his go near Pledge than he’d fly; and Webster’s not particular.”

“And I heard Cartwright say,” said Coote, by way of assisting the discussion, “that Pledge has done his best to make a cad of you, and nearly succeeded.”

“He said that?” said Georgie, hotly; “like his cheek! Has he done so, Dick?”

“Not much,” said Dick, frankly.

“I don’t feel myself a cad,” said poor Heathcote.

“Perhaps fellows can’t always tell, themselves,” said Coote.

There was a pause after this, and the “Firm” walked on for some distance in silence. Then Dick said:

“You’ll have to jack him up, Georgie, that’s all about it.”

“But I tell you he’ll let out on us,” pleaded Georgie, “and really I’ve only said I’ll fag now and then for him.”

“Can’t help, Georgie; We don’t want to have you made a cad of. It would smash up our ‘Firm,’ wouldn’t it, Coote?”

“Rather,” said Coote.

“Besides,” said Dick, “he’s such a cad, no one would believe him if he did tell of us. My father would shut him up. He’ll be down, you know, on Tuesday.”

Heathcote breathed hard. But when it came to a question of choosing between Pledge and the “Firm,” it needed no very desperate inward battle to decide.

“What had I better do?” he asked.

“Cut him,” said Dick.

“But suppose I’ve promised him?”

“That’s a nuisance. Never mind, we’re all in it, so we’ll send him a letter from the ‘Firm’ and tell him you cry off. It’s a bad job, of course, but it can’t be helped, and we’ll back you up, won’t we, Coote?”

“I should rather say so,” replied the genial junior partner.

So, that quiet Sunday afternoon, in an unpretentious and unsentimental way, a very good stroke of work was done, not only for the soul of Georgie Heathcote, but for Templeton generally.

The “Firm” were by no means elated at their decision, for they had yet to learn what revenge the senior would take upon them. Still, the effort and the common peril knit them together in bonds of closer brotherhood, and enabled them to face the future, if not cheerily, at least, with grim determination.

Pledge was considerably astounded that evening, just as he was speculating on the reason of Heathcote’s non-appearance, to see Coote’s round head suddenly thrust in at the door, and a small billet tossed on to the table.

Pledge was getting used to small billets by this time, and was rather tired of them. Coote, as he knew, was Cartwright’s fag; he therefore concluded that Cartwright was the writer of the note, and that being so, he pitched the paper unopened into the empty fireplace with a sneer.

He waited for another half-hour, and still Heathcote did not appear. Pledge didn’t like it, and began to grow concerned. Was it possible, after all, he had made too sure of his young friend?

Partly to pass the time, and partly with the vague idea that might throw some light on the matter, he had the curiosity to pick the neglected billet out of the hearth and open it.

His face went through a strange series of emotions as he read its extraordinary contents:—

Our Dear Pledge,—We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can’t fag for you. He doesn’t believe he really promised, but must be excused. We’ve made him do it because we don’t want him to be made a cad. He is very sorry, and hopes you won’t be a cad and let out about the row we are in. Excuse this short letter, and, with kind regards, believe us, our dear Pledge, your affectionate young friends, B. Richardson, G. Heathcote, A.D. Coote. Sunday afternoon.

Our Dear Pledge,—We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can’t fag for you. He doesn’t believe he really promised, but must be excused. We’ve made him do it because we don’t want him to be made a cad. He is very sorry, and hopes you won’t be a cad and let out about the row we are in. Excuse this short letter, and, with kind regards, believe us, our dear Pledge, your affectionate young friends, B. Richardson, G. Heathcote, A.D. Coote. Sunday afternoon.

This masterpiece of conciliatory firmness, which had cost the “Firm” an hour’s painful labour to concoct, brought out the angry spots on Pledge’s cheeks and forced some bad language from his lips.

The letter he had received from Mansfield a week ago had been nothing to this. Mansfield and he were equals, and a reverse at Mansfield’s hands was at least an ordinary misfortune of war.

But to be coolly flouted, and to have all the work of a term upset by three wretched youngsters, who called themselves his affectionate young friends, was a drop too much in the bucket of the “spider’s” humiliation.

He stared at the letter in a stupid way, like one bewildered. Even its quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a sneer on his lips. Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion had reached its climax.

If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?

The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr Webster’s pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.

How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not to be impatient. Wednesday was to be the great election for the “Sociables,” and, if our heroes’ names appeared on the list, as rumour already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till then.

So he sat down, and acknowledged the “Firm’s” note as follows:—

My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,—Pray do as you like. Promises are never made to be kept by “Select Sociables” of your high character. I do not understand what you mean about your row. What row are you in?Areyou in a row? You don’t call that little matter that I am expecting to talk to the “Sociables” about on Wednesday a row, do you? Please give my kind regards to Georgie Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him to lay my cloth. No doubt he has given you many interesting stories of the miserable week he spent with me last holidays in London. I’m not surprised at his turning against me after that. I hope I shall not have to tell anyone some of the stories he has told me of Richardson and Coote. Excuse this long letter, and believe me, my dear young jail-birds, your “affectionate” P. Pledge.

My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,—Pray do as you like. Promises are never made to be kept by “Select Sociables” of your high character. I do not understand what you mean about your row. What row are you in?Areyou in a row? You don’t call that little matter that I am expecting to talk to the “Sociables” about on Wednesday a row, do you? Please give my kind regards to Georgie Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him to lay my cloth. No doubt he has given you many interesting stories of the miserable week he spent with me last holidays in London. I’m not surprised at his turning against me after that. I hope I shall not have to tell anyone some of the stories he has told me of Richardson and Coote. Excuse this long letter, and believe me, my dear young jail-birds, your “affectionate” P. Pledge.

This bitter effusion was read next morning by the “Firm” as they walked down to the “Tub.” Its full sting did not come out till after three or four careful perusals, and then the “Firm” looked blankly at one another with lengthened faces.

“I couldn’t believe any fellow could be such a cad,” said Dick.

“It’s jolly awkward!” said Heathcote. “You know he was awfully civil to me in London, and it does seem low to be cutting him now.”

“Civil, be hanged!” said Dick. “He tried to get hold of you to make a cad of you, that’s what he did; and you were precious near being one, too, when you came back, weren’t you?”

“Was I?” asked the humble Georgie.

“Rather,” said Coote; “everybody said so.”

“Well, of course,” said Georgie, “if that’s what he was driving at, it doesn’t matter so much.”

“Except that it makes him all the bigger a cad.”

“What on earth shall we do about the other thing?” asked Georgie.

“The row? We must cheek it, that’s all. If he does us over the ‘Sociable’ election, we can’t be helped.”

“And suppose he gets us transported?”

“Can’t do it, I tell you; my father will be up here, you know.”

There was a pause, and the “Firm” walked on. Then Georgie said:—

“I say, what does he mean about the stories I told about you and Coote. I never told any stories, that I remember. I never had any to tell.”

“Ah, I was wondering what that meant,” said Dick. “He speaks as if you’d been blabbing all sorts of things.”

“I really don’t think I ever did,” said Heathcote, ransacking his memory. “I may have said once I thought Coote was rather an ass, but that was all.”

“What made you tell him that?” said Coote.

“He asked me if I didn’t think so,” said Georgie, apologetically, “and of course I was bound to say what I thought.”

“Rather,” said Coote.

“But he’s telling crams about you, Dick,” said Georgie; “I’m quite sure of that. He used to try and make out you were a sneak and a prig; and perhaps I believed him once or twice, but that was while I was a cad, you know.”

“Oh, yes, that’s all right!” said Dick, putting his arm in that of his friend.

Pledge would have had very little consolation out of this short discussion, and if for the next two days he sat up in his study expecting that every footstep belonged to the “Firm” on its way to capitulate, he must have been sorely disappointed. Capitulation was the one consideration which had never once entered the heads of the honest fraternity.

That afternoon the town of Templeton was startled by an incident, which had it come to the ears of our heroes, as they sat and groaned over their “Select Dialogues of the Dead,” would have effectually driven every letter of the Greek alphabet out of their heads for the time being.

The event was nothing else but the arrival in port of the collier brig,Hail! Columbiawith a cargo of coals from the Tyne, andmirabile dictu! with theMarthalying comfortably, bottom upwards, safe and sound, on her deck.

The collier, according to the account of the skipper, had been running across the head of the bay on the 5th of June last, in half a cap of wind from the shore, when it sighted theMarthadrifting empty out to sea. Having sent one of his men after her to capture her, and being convinced by the absence of oars or tackle that she must have drifted from her moorings empty, he took her on board; and, as he was bound to deliver his cargo by a certain day, and the wind being against his putting into Templeton, he stowed his prize comfortably away amidships, where she had been ever since, awaiting his next call at Templeton.

With the free-and-easy business ways of his craft, he had neglected to send any letter or message announcing the safety of theMarthato her afflicted friends; and having been detained in this place and that by stress of weather or business, he had now, after more than three months’ absence, his first opportunity of restoring the lost property to its rightful owner.

If the simple fishermen of Templeton had been inclined to believe in miracles, the strange reappearance of the missingMarthaat this particular time must have savoured of something of the sort. But being matter-of-fact folk, they contented themselves with lounging round the boat as she lay once more on the beach, staring at her, and wondering between their whiffs what the solicitors and judges would say now.

The skipper of theHail! Columbiahad neither the time nor the patience to discover who just now was the lawful owner of the boat. Some said Tom White; some said Tom White’s partners; some said the pawnbroker.

The master disposed the problem off his mind very simply by setting down theMarthaon the beach, and letting those who chose to claim her settle their squabble among themselves.

The news of the return of the prodigal was not long in spreading; and by the time the Templeton boys came down for their afternoon bathe it was common property.

Our heroes heard it in the water, from Raggles, and immediately landed and dressed. They scarcely exchanged a word till they stood at the side of theMartha, where she lay in almost the same spot where two of them had seen her three-and-a-half months ago. Then Dick said:—

“Think of her turning up at last!”

“I half guessed she would,” said Georgie, “though I never expected it. I say, this settles our row, doesn’t it?”

“Pretty well. But of course Tom White may catch it for pawning the boat. He collared the money, you know.”

“Ah, but that’s not got much to do with us,” said Heathcote.

“Well,” said Dick, “we ought to back him right up, while we are at it. Besides, you know, we may still get into a row for letting her go, though shehasturned up.”

Altogether the “Firm” were not very sure how far their position was improved by the recovery of theMartha. If Pledge, or any one, chose to tell tales, or if they themselves, in order to extricate Tom White, had to tell tales of themselves, all might yet go wrong. The one good thing, they decided, was that Mr Richardson, when he came to-morrow, would be saved the expense of buying at least one new boat for somebody.

Our heroes, as in duty bound, were at the station to meet the 3:5 train, and give the worthy paterfamilias a reception.

“Hullo, father,” cried Dick, as if he had only parted with his parent five minutes ago, “they’ve found her, I say. Do you see that two-masted collier in the harbour? She picked her up, the day after we slipped her. Isn’t it jolly?”

Mr Richardson certainly looked surprised, and a trifle relieved; but the matter did not yet occur to him in a “jolly” light.

“It’s a good thing she has come back,” said he; “and now, as I have a great deal to do, I’ll say good-bye for the present. I have sent a note to Doctor Winter, to ask him to let you breakfast with me at the ‘George,’ in the morning.”

“Thanks, awfully, sir,” said Coote, beaming all over.

Mr Richardson laughed.

“I’m afraid I only mentioned Basil in my note,” said he, “but I daresay we shall be able to have a meal together later in the day. Good-bye.”

“Rather cool cheek of you, Coote,” said Dick, as the “Firm” returned to the school, “cadging my father that way for breakfast.”

“Very sorry,” said Coote, humbly. “I thought we were all in it, that’s all.”

The evening passed anxiously for the boys, and no less so for poor Mr Richardson, who was buffeted about from pillar to post, from lawyer to lawyer, from boatman to pawnbroker, in his honest efforts to extricate his son from his scrape.

The recovery of theMartha, he found, made very little improvement in his prospects. For now she had come back, everybody seemed to be calculating the amount of money she would have brought in had she remained at Templeton during the busy season. This loss was estimated at several times the value of the boat, and the high-principled prosecutors would hear no suggestion of withdrawing the case until each one of them—partners, pawnbroker, and all—had been refunded the entire sum.

Then, when that was done, the lawyers pulled their bills out of their desks, and hinted that some one would have to settle them; and as neither the partners, nor the pawnbroker, nor Tom White, saw their way to doing so, Mr Richardson had to draw his own inferences and settle them himself. Then, when all seemed settled, the police recollected that they had had considerable trouble in looking after the case. They had made several journeys, and spent several hours on the beach looking out for the supposed thief. They had also had charge of Tom White for a fortnight; and what with postages, telegrams, and office fees, they were decidedly out of pocket over the whole business.

The long-suffering father put them in pocket, and after subscribing to several local charities, and consoling the reporters of theTempleton Observerand other such outsiders, he retired, jaded, but comforted, to the “George,” feeling that if his mission had been successful, it had cost him an amount of generosity which he could hardly have believed was in him.

When Dick, “with shining morning face,” presented himself next morning for breakfast, he little imagined how much of his father’s money was at that moment scattered about in Templeton.

“Huzza! father,” said he, when his parent presented himself in the coffee-room. “Such a game! Cresswell says he’ll give us his study this evening, so our ‘Firm’s’ going to give you a spread. Coote and Georgie are out ordering the tucker now—kidneys and tea-cake. I asked Winter when I went for myexeatif we might have you, and he said, ‘Yes; he’d be very glad.’ Mind you come. It’ll be a stunning spread, and Georgie and Coote are sure to pick out good things. I wish mother could come too.”

In the face of this hospitable outburst, Mr Richardson could hardly expatiate on the cost and anxiety of his mission to Templeton. A calmer moment must do for that. Meanwhile he delighted his son’s heart by accepting his invitation on the spot.

He allowed Dick and his two friends, if it fitted in with school rules, to be present in the Court to hear the end of Tom White’s case—a permission they were not slow to avail themselves of, although this time they occupied a modest seat at the back, and attempted no public manifestations of encouragement to the prisoner in court.

The case ended very simply. When it was called on, and Tom, as friendly as ever, was ushered into the box, no one appeared to accuse him, and the magistrates, rightly concluding this to mean that the prosecution had retired, dismissed the case accordingly.

Tom said, “Thank’ee, sir,” and looked quite bewildered on being told he might walk out of court a free man.

Our heroes, who had already got outside before he reached the door, deemed it their duty to complete their efforts in his favour by congratulating him on his escape.

“Jolly glad we are, Tom White,” said Dick, as the worthy mariner came towards them. “It was hard lines for you, and it wasn’t all your fault. It’s my father got you off, you know.”

“Thank’ee, young gentleman. It’s very hard on a hard-working mariner not to have his living. If you could spare a trifle and tell the gentlemen, I’d thank you kindly.”

“We haven’t got any tin to spare now,” said Dick, who knew that the resources of the “Firm” had been well-nigh exhausted in preparation for the spread in Cresswell’s study that evening; “but we won’t forget. Good-bye, old man. Jolly glad you’ve got out at last!”

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