Freddy Plunger was amongst the anglers. He was talking loudly about his achievements at different times with rod and line, when Devey, Arbery, and Leveson came up with him.
"What are you fishing for, Plunger?" asked Devey, catching him gently by the ear. "Whales?"
"No—eels!" retorted Plunger snappily, having good cause to remember Devey the night before. "Slippery things, eels, aren't they?"
"Not half so slippery as you are, Mr. Plunger. But don't be cheeky."
"Never am, Mr. Devey. That's my fault—always too polite. Born like it, so can't help myself. Where are you going to, Mr. Devey?"
"That's my business, Mr. Plunger. Little boys shouldn't ask questions—they should be seen and not heard. If you have a good catch, ask us to supper, won't you? Ta-ta, Plunger!"
And Devey and his companions went on, leaving Plunger and his companions chuckling in their sleeves.
"Mr. Devey thinks himself mighty clever now, but he looked an awful ass in the shed last night when all the fellows turned on him for laughing like a paroquet," grinned Plunger. "I nearly killed myself trying to keep my feelings under. It was enough to make a cat scream. Oh, dear; oh, my!"
And Plunger went off at the recollection, till he received a dig in the ribs from Baldry which made him gasp.
"Shut up, Freddy; here comes the noble champion of the Fifth! He doesn't look over-pleased with himself."
As he spoke, Paul and Stanley passed them. Baldry was not far wrong. Paul was far from pleased with himself. He was going to fight in cold blood a boy with whom he personally had no quarrel, and he had not the slightest notion who his opponent was. He might be a noble-hearted fellow, as much averse to quarrelling and fighting as he was, but compelled to fight—as he had been—for "the honour of the Form." He—Paul—had faced danger, and had not shrunk from it; but somehow, he shrunk from the encounter before him.
"Look! There's quite a crowd at the sand-pit already," exclaimed Stanley, who was a great deal more excited at the coming encounter than Paul was.
By this time they had come within sight of the sand-pit. Paul, looking up, saw that on one side had gathered most of the boys of the Fifth, while on the other side were the boys from St. Bede's.
Though the boys of St. Bede's and those of Garside regarded themselves as adversaries, to their credit be it said no outbreak of temper had resulted from their meeting at the sand-pit. There had been some amount of good-humoured chaff bandied to and fro across the pit, but nothing more. All were eager for the coming struggle.
A cheer went up from the Garsides directly they caught sight of Paul. The Bedes eyed him critically.
"Looks grim enough—as though he meant business," said one, as Paul advanced to the pit.
The cheer of his comrades put fresh life into Paul. His blood, which had seemed stagnant, began to race through his veins.
"For the honour of the Form," he said to himself, between his clenched teeth, "I must—I will win!"
As though his comrades wished to give him all the encouragement in their power, another cheer went up as he entered the pit, and took up his position on the floor of hard-pressed sand below.
"Where's the other fellow?" he asked.
"Doesn't seem to have turned up yet," said Arbery; "but I don't think it's quite time. How goes it, Levy?"
Leveson had a stop-watch and was very proud of it. He usually acted as timekeeper at the school sports, when the stop-watch was very much to the fore. He prided himself on one thing—always knowing the right time. His was the only watch that kept the right time at Garside—so, at least, Leveson said. To ask Leveson the "correct time" was one of the greatest compliments you could pay him. It was a tacit acknowledgment that the time kept by Leveson's stop-watch was superior to any other.
"Three minutes eighteen seconds to three," answered Leveson, after examining the watch.
"Oh, we'll make you a present of the seconds," said Arbery. Then he shouted across to the Bedes: "I say, Beetles, is that champion of yours coming on an ambulance?"
"No; that's coming after," cried a bright-eyed lad named Sterry, from the other side, "to take your champion home!"
A loud laugh from the Bedes greeted this retort.
"He scored over you there, Arbery," said indolent Waterman.
Scarcely had the laughter died away than it was followed by a loud cheer.
"Their man's coming at last. What's the time, Levy?"
"One minute thirty secs. to the hour. He's cut it rather fine—must be a cool sort of bounder," answered Leveson. "Hallo, look there! Hang me if there isn't Master Plunger and a lot of the howlers from his form."
Arbery looked in the direction indicated. Plunger and his companions were lying at full length on the banks of the pit, peering over its sides and taking the deepest possible interest in the proceedings below.
"So it is. How did the little beggar get to know what was going on, I wonder?"
"Said he was going eel-fishing. Thought it was a blind," said Devey. "Hallo, they're peeling!"
Paul had taken off his coat, and rolled back his sleeves. The champion of the other Form could not at first be seen because of the throng which had gathered round him, but presently he came from the group that surrounded him with his coat off, and his arms bared, just as Paul stepped into the ring.
Their eyes met. Paul staggered back, as though he had been struck. The youth who stood before him was Gilbert Wyndham, he who had helped him on the night he was fleeing from Zuker. Fight him? Impossible! Not though his life depended on it!
The excited murmur of voices that followed the two into the ring ceased. A strange silence rested on the place, as the two boys confronted each other. Then as the two schools were waiting eagerly for the first blow to be struck, they saw Paul's hands fall helpless to his side; saw the colour go from his face; saw the white lips move. What did it mean? They stared in wonder, and the wonder grew as Paul turned away and took his coat from Moncrief.
"I cannot fight," he murmured.
With his coat on his arm he hastened from the pit. Then the silence was broken by the Bedes. They howled, and jeered and hooted. And above the hooting and the jeers there rose the cry:
"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"
Heedless of the shouting and the jeers, Paul walked swiftly away, as one seized with sudden fear. His own Form still remained silent. They might have been struck dumb. It was all so strange—so unexpected.
Then they in turn shouted and jeered after the retreating figure.
Paul heard the shouts. Those from the Bedes made him shiver. These from his own Form cut into him like whips.
"They do not understand! How—how can I tell them?" he murmured as he pressed on, anxious to get away from the place as quickly as possible. He did not pause till he came in sight of the old flag waving above the school. Had he disgraced that flag—the legacy of a brave soldier? Had he dishonoured it? God would be his judge.
He passed three or four boys as he entered the grounds. They knew nothing of what had happened at the sand-pit. One boy spoke to him, but Paul took no heed of him. He had not heard him. He was as though deaf and blind to all around him. He did not pause till he reached one of the class-rooms; then his head fell on his arms.
The shouts and jeers followed him, and broke harshly in upon the stillness of the room. With startling distinctness he could hear them, and the cry went ringing through his brain:
"The noble champion of the Gargoyles!"
Then resting there, with his head bowed on his arms, he searched his conscience, and asked himself the question—"Have I done right?" Had he acted as his father would have wished him to act had he been living? Had he done right in the sight of God? Yes, he felt confident he had done right in refusing to fight Wyndham, though he could not explain to his class-mates why he had so acted. That night ride was known only to Stanley and him. It was impossible for him to divulge the secret to his Form. He must suffer their taunts in silence, trusting that the time would soon come when he might speak.
"There's one good thing, old Stan will understand me. I can make it clear enough to him. He ought to be here by this time. Why doesn't he come?" he asked himself.
He tried to shake off the gloom that oppressed him, but could not. His head went to the desk again, and again he heard the yells and hooting of the boys at the pit; but the cries seemed fainter.
"Why doesn't Stan come—why doesn't Stan come?" he kept asking himself.
He rested thus for some time—how long he knew not—when he was roused by a timid hand resting on his arm, while a gentle voice whispered: "Percival."
He looked up quickly. Hibbert was standing beside him, his face, usually so pale, was slightly flushed, as the brown eyes turned to Paul.
"I haven't disturbed you, have I?" he asked.
"What do you want with me, Hibbert?" Paul asked rather sharply; for he did not like the lad breaking in upon him so quietly.
"You looked so wretched and miserable I could not help coming in. You're not angry with me, are you?"
"Angry with you? No; why should I be?" answered Paul, forcing a smile to his face at the boy's eager question.
"Oh, I'm so used to people being angry with me, except you and—and Mr. Weevil."
"Mr. Weevil! Doesn't he ever get angry with you?"
"No; he's very good to me."
Paul was rather astonished at this piece of information, knowing that Weevil had a reputation for harshness.
"Glad to hear it. He makes it up on the other fellows." Paul's mind flitted back to the night when Stanley was sent to Dormitory X. "But why aren't you outside, enjoying yourself with your class-mates?"
"They never want me to play with them. I'm no good at their games," answered the boy sadly; "but I've been with some of them this afternoon. I was at the—sand-pit."
He volunteered the information with some hesitation. Paul flushed. What had happened would soon be known, then, to every boy in the school.
"We found out what was going to happen in our Form; and so I went with the rest to see you—to see you——"
Again the boy hesitated.
"To see me turn tail and run. Out with it. Don't be afraid of hurting my feelings," cried Paul bitterly. "The other fellows won't. You'll hear what they'll be calling me presently—quite a choice collection of names—cur, pariah, coward, and the rest of it."
"No, not coward. I know you couldn't be," said the boy confidently. "Any one can see that by looking in your face. I know you had some reason for going away. It's that made you so wretched. I knew you would be, and so—and so after waiting a little time to see what would happen, I followed after you."
Paul was touched at Hibbert's devotion. In that one moment the boy had repaid a hundredfold the little act of kindness he had shown him when he first entered the school. He had come to Paul in his loneliness, and had brought a ray of sunshine into the gloom that had suddenly sprung up around him.
"Do you know, Hibbert, you're a very good little chap to speak of me as you do, and to think of me as you do? I'm a long way off deserving it, I can tell you. You waited after I left the sand-pit, you say, to see what would happen? What did happen? They kept up the groans for me till they were tired, I suppose?"
"Don't speak of it," said the boy, shivering.
"You needn't be afraid of giving me pain, I tell you. I'm getting pretty tough. After they'd done hooting me——"
"While they were still hooting you, Moncrief threw off his jacket, and leapt into your place."
"What!" cried Paul, starting to his feet, and staring at the boy. "Leapt into my place?"
"Yes, stood up to the Beetle—the fellow they call Wyndham; then the hooting stopped, and our fellows cheered madly, specially when Newall came forward and backed up Moncrief major."
"Newall! backed up Moncrief!" repeated Paul, bewildered. "Do you mean to say Moncrief fought with Wyndham?"
"Yes, wildly—madly."
Paul closed his eyes, shuddering. He could see the two confronting each other, and staggering about in the sand-pit. For some moments he could not speak, and when his hands came from his face, it was as white as the boy's before him.
"And who—who came off best, Hibbert?"
"I don't know. I—I could not stop. To see them fighting so made me—made me feel bad all over. I'm not like other boys. And—and all the time I was thinking of you; so I hastened here, and—and found you."
"They were still fighting as you left?"
"Yes, yes; but where are you going?"
Paul had seized his cap and turned to the door.
"To see what has happened."
"It will be all over by now; don't go," pleaded the boy.
But Paul was deaf to Hibbert's pleading.
"What have I done—what have I done?" he asked himself as he rushed into the grounds. "Fool—fool, not to have guessed what would happen!"
Somehow we do rarely guess what will happen. Things which seem so clear to us after they have happened are quite hidden from our sight beforehand. The best of us grope about in the dark, and stumble blindly along as Paul Percival had done.
Paul rushed on—back—back to the sand-pit. Suddenly he came to a dead stop. The hum of many voices reached his ears. A crowd of boys were coming towards him.
In the midst of the boys coming along the road was Stanley. He was not so easy to recognize, for his face was bruised and swollen, and a thin streak of scarlet came from a cut near the right eye. He seemed to stagger along the road rather than walk, and, what was most strange, Newall had one arm through his, as though to support him.
Paul's heart fell. It was true enough what Hibbert had said. A fight had taken place, and, judging by appearances, Stanley had had the worst of it. For the moment Paul could not move; then, rousing himself, with an effort he ran towards Stanley.
Instantly he was greeted with a storm of hisses. Stanley turned from him with a look on his bruised and swollen face Paul had never seen there before. It was a look of repugnance, as though the affection between them had suddenly turned to loathing. Then the crowd of boys parted, and drawing away from Paul, left him standing there alone—he might have been a leper.
He began to feel indignant against Stanley. He at least ought to have known why he had refused to fight Wyndham; and then, as he recalled Stanley's bruised face, his indignation vanished. The old tenderness and affection for his friend came back in a wave.
"Why did I leave you, Stan—why did I leave you?"
He reproached himself, and still more bitterly Wyndham. It was Wyndham who had done this—who had bruised and battered Stanley, and raised this barrier between them.
"You'll have to reckon with me some day, Master Wyndham," he said to himself.
He looked in the direction of Garside. The boys had disappeared from sight. How could he get an explanation of what had happened? He would go and demand one; but somehow as he turned to the school his feet seemed as heavy as lead. For the first time he felt as though he had no right there. What was the use of going back when no one wanted him? He had made a horrible mess of everything.
Paul felt utterly miserable, as though he would like to flee from everything and every one. Then the pale face of little Hibbert rose before him, and he heard him speaking again as he had spoken to him in the class-room:
"Coward! I know you couldn't be. Any one can see that by looking in your face."
There was one at the school, at any rate, who had not lost faith in him. And Paul was strengthened by the memory.
Thus thinking, he turned away from the school again, scarcely heeding the direction in which he went. Happening to look up, he saw Waterman coming along the road towards him. He was strolling along with both hands thrust in his pockets in his usual leisurely manner. He was one of that class of boys who never seem to have anything to do, and plenty of time to do it in.
"I wonder if he will shun me like the rest?" thought Paul. And then he added with a smile: "At any rate he won't run away from me. It'll be too much trouble."
As Paul anticipated, Waterman made no attempt to avoid him, but he would have passed on without speaking, had not Paul stood directly in his pathway.
"You were at the sand-pit this afternoon, Waterman?"
"Of course I was."
"And saw what happened?"
"Yes," was the curt answer, and Waterman endeavoured to pass on, but Paul still stood in his pathway.
"You're not in a hurry, Watey."
"Hurry!" repeated the boy indignantly, with raised eyebrows, as though that were one of the most offensive words Paul could use. "I never fag over things, you know."
"Then you can spare me a minute or two. I'll turn back with you, if you like."
Waterman neither assented nor dissented. So soon as Paul turned, he kept on his way, with both hands in his pockets, as though unconscious of Paul's presence.
"I want to know what happened at the pit after I left."
"Haven't you seen any of the other fellows? Why didn't you get them to explain? I'm never good at explanations."
"I meant speaking to them, but they booed and hissed at me, like geese."
"Really?" And Waterman's eyebrows went up, as though he marvelled at so much unnecessary exertion being expended on Paul. "I don't see the good of that, but it's the way some fellows have of showing their feeling. And come to think of it, I don't wonder. You cut up badly at the sand-pit. I really don't know whether I'm doing quite right in speaking to you—I really don't."
"You can settle that point after. Tell me first what happened at the sand-pit, Watey," urged Paul.
"Moncrief took your place when you turned tail——"
"Yes, yes; I've heard that. After—after——"
"Well, unfortunately for Garside, Moncrief got the worst of it. He made a very plucky stand, but he wasn't a match for the Beetle—what's the fellow's name?—Wyndham. Moncrief stood well up to him, but it was no good. He was knocked down once or twice, until Newall, who was backing him, you know, threw up the sponge. Moncrief would never have given in himself. I never saw a fellow look so wretched and miserable as he did when, after coming to, they told him it was all over and he had lost. But the fellows cheered him for his pluck, and some of the Beetles joined in after they had shouted themselves hoarse over their own champion, especially that little turncoat, Mellor. He shouted himself black in the face."
"Wretched and miserable, you say?" repeated Paul. Brief as Waterman's description was, he could picture all that had happened—he could see Stanley reeling under Wyndham's blows, and the climax of it all when he had swallowed the last bitter drop—the humiliation of defeat.
"Yes, wretched and miserable, and I don't wonder at it." They walked on in silence for some moments; then Waterman suddenly spoke again: "Look here, Percival, it's an awful fag trying to understand any one, but I once thought I understood you. I never dreamt you'd turn tail like you did. I'll never try to understand any one again. I'll give it up."
"Bear with me a little longer. I had my reasons for what I did."
"I suppose you had. You can't be quite an idiot. But reasons can be explained. Why didn't you explain yours?"
"Look here," said Paul; "you've acted decently towards me, Waterman, and I'll explain to you as far as I'm able. Supposing a Beetle had done you, a few weeks back, a splendid turn—got you out of a tight corner in which you might have lost your life? Are you following me?"
"Beetle—tight corner. Yes, I follow; but don't make it too hazy. I don't want to suffer from brain-fag. You're out of a tight corner, and your life's saved by—a Beetle. Trot along."
"Well, supposing on your return to school after that, a breeze springs up between the Beetles and the Fifth; and supposing the Fifth insist on you being its champion?"
"Oh, that's absurd. They'd never insist on my being its champion. I can't follow you there, Percival."
"I know it's hard," smiled Paul; "but, we're only supposing, you know."
"Ah, yes, I'd forgotten; but I can't see the use of supposing absurdities. Go on your own giddy way. Supposing——"
"The Fifth insist on you being its champion; and then supposing, when you get to the sand-pit to do battle for your form, you find that the champion of the Beetles—the one you're to do battle with—is the fellow who saved your life. Well, supposing all this, could you have fought him?"
"You don't mean to say that this is what happened to you?" demanded Waterman, rousing himself in a surprising way.
"You haven't answered me."
"Well, if I could fancy myself as a champion of any kind, I don't think I could go for one who'd saved my life—bother it, no! But is this really what happened to you, Percival?"
"Yes, it really happened to me."
"Then why didn't you explain?"
"Because I couldn't. My tongue's tied for the present. I'm only explaining to you in confidence, and I want you to promise me that you won't let it go any further."
"I hate mysteries, they're so worrying. Why should there be any mystery?"
"Why? I can't explain, except—except that there's something more important than the honour of the Fifth; than the honour of the school even. That's the reason why I'm obliged to keep silent."
"Oh, I say, this is getting more and more worrying. But if you don't want me to speak, of course, I'll keep quiet!"
Paul knew that he could trust Waterman. In spite of his slackness—in spite of his indolence—he could be relied on to keep his word. In fact, he had one or two good qualities in reserve. If he made no close friendships, he had no enemies. "It was too great a trouble," he would have told you. "Too great a fag." That was only half the truth; the whole truth was that Waterman had, at bottom, a very good heart, though it was not often seen. It was hidden under his indolence of manner.
He allowed a corner of it to be seen in a curious fashion on the way back to the school. He stuck to Paul's side—both hands in his pocket, of course—and made no attempt to "cut him," as the others had done. They passed several of the Gargoyles as they reached the school grounds, and directly Waterman's ears caught the suggestion of a jibe—and he had rather sharp ears considering how lazy he was—he would start whistling a popular tune, so that the jibe had a good deal of the sting taken from it by the time it reached its mark.
"I wish you could make it right with the fellows," he remarked, as he took leave of Paul.
"All in good time. I'm grateful that you haven't turned your back on me, Waterman."
"Oh, don't butter me for that. I can't turn my back on any one—it's too great a fag."
And Waterman strolled away with his hands in his pocket as though they had been glued there, whistling "Hail, smiling morn."
Paul's talk with him had put him in a more cheerful mood.
"I've only to find Stan and explain things. I don't care a snap of my fingers for the other fellows—they can go to Halifax," Paul told himself, as he went in search of Stanley. But though he searched for him in every direction, he could not find him.
"He don't like to show himself just yet, with so many beauty spots on his face. Perhaps he's lying down," thought Paul, as he made his way to the dormitory. But Stanley was not in the dormitory—it was empty. "Strange. Where can he have got to?"
Descending the stairs, the first boy he ran against was Plunger.
"Seen anything of Moncrief major?" he asked.
Plunger simply stared at him, while his eyebrows went up, in the way they had, till they disappeared into the stubborn thatch above.
"Did you hear what I said?"
Plunger did another movement with his eccentric eyebrows, then turned on his heel. Paul sprang after him, angry in spite of himself.
"Now look here, Master Plunger," he said, seizing him by the collar, and twisting him sharply round, "none of your nonsense. You needn't pretend that you didn't hear me, because you did. I asked you a civil question, and I want a civil answer."
"You ought to know more about him than I do, Percival. The last I saw of him he was being knocked about for you in the sand-pit."
And Plunger laughed impudently in Paul's face. Paul's hand fell from his collar. The jibe struck home, and Plunger went laughing on his way. He was always supremely happy when he could "score," as he termed it, "off those bounders of the Fifth." Paul felt that he had descended low, indeed, when he could be used as a target for the jibes of Master Freddy Plunger.
He glanced back to the flag that waved above Garside—from the flag to the school door. As he did so, the figure he was looking for appeared in the doorway—the figure of Stanley Moncrief.
Stanley was not alone, as Paul hoped he would be. Newall and Parfitt were with him. It was evident that his new-found friends had been "doctoring" him, for the blood had been carefully washed from his face, and it presented a less bruised and battered appearance.
As he came from the door he caught sight of Paul. Paul hoped that he had got over his bitterness towards him by this time, and that he would come forward and greet him on the old footing of friendship. But he was disappointed; for as soon almost as Stanley caught sight of him, he turned away his head and commenced talking rapidly to Newall, as though he were unaware of Paul's existence. It was perfectly evident that his feeling to Paul had not softened in any way, and it was quite as clear that he meant ignoring him.
Paul determined to speak to him, however, so, as he passed by him, he touched him on the shoulder.
"Stanley!"
At his touch, Stanley turned swiftly round and confronted him with blazing eyes.
"What do you want with me?"
"To speak with you for a few moments—alone."
"I've had as much speaking with you as I ever want to have. I never wish to speak with you again—never, never!" He was greatly agitated. His voice was trembling with passion; but it grew calmer and harder, as, turning to his new-found companions, he said:
"You hear what I say, Newall; and you, Parfitt. You are my witnesses."
"Yes, we hear. We are your witnesses," said Parfitt.
"Thanks!" And without waiting an answer from Paul, the three passed on. Not that Paul had an answer to give. He could not have spoken had his life depended on it. He was too staggered; too pained. Never speak to Stanley again! He with whom he had been on the closest terms of friendship ever since he had been at Garside!
"Had he listened to me for a few moments I could have explained all. He doesn't dream who Wyndham is. He can be as stubborn as a mule. And what a look he gave me!" thought Paul. "I never dreamt that Stan would ever look at me in that way. I know what it is—it isn't Stan himself. It's those fellows he's picked up. He's sore against me, and they keep rubbing it in to keep the sore open. If I could only get him away from them."
Paul thought for a moment or two how he should act. In spite of Stanley's hard words, he had no intention that the friendship which had existed between them should be severed without one more effort on his part to heal the breach. They were bound to meet in the dormitory that night. It would then be possible for him to whisper a word or two of explanation.
But when evening came he found to his dismay that Stanley had left the dormitory. He had got permission to exchange cubicles with Leveson; so that he was now in the same dormitory as Newall.
"He's gone over bag and baggage to the enemy," said Paul sorrowfully. "If Parfitt had only walked his chalks, and taken up his quarters with his friend Newall, we could very well have spared him; but Stan——"
He glanced round. Parfitt was watching him from the side of his bed, enjoying his discomfiture. That did not serve to lessen Paul's sorrow.
"——forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us."
Very earnestly he breathed the divine prayer that evening. The breach between him and Stanley seemed to be widening. What was to be done? There was one way left. He would write to him on the morrow.
"He has refused to listen to an explanation, but he can't refuse to read my letter."
So Paul rose early in the morning and wrote a letter. He explained as briefly as he could the reasons which had made him act as he had done at the sand-pit.
"Wyndham was the fellow who acted so nobly when I went with your father's letter to Redmead that night, Stan. I could not raise my hand against him, and I never dreamed that you would. I hurried away because it was impossible for me to explain to the fellows what happened on that night—you alone know why. It would have got all over the place, and would have soon reached Weevil's ears. Then the last chance of finding out what is between him and Zuker would have gone. I can quite understand your soreness against me, old fellow, and I'm sorry—very sorry—that things turned out as they did at the sand-pit; but I hope you now see that I'm not so much to blame as you thought me. It is our first fall-out. Let it be our last. We were never meant to be enemies, old fellow. It mustn't be—mustn't. If all are against me, and you are with me, I shan't so much mind; so let's shake hands."
Paul put the letter in an envelope and handed it to Waterman, who was still stretching and yawning, as though not quite awake.
"Do you mind giving this to Moncrief major. You're about the only fellow in the Form who wouldn't mind doing me a favour," he said.
"Moncrief major. Yes, yes; of course I will. It's an awfully lazy sort of morning, don't you think, Percival?" answered Waterman, stretching himself as he took the letter.
That was Waterman's opinion of mornings generally. Every morning was a "lazy sort of a morning."
"Yes, Watey," answered Paul, taking him by the arm and hurrying him towards the grounds where most of the scholars were. In a little while he espied Stanley, playing with Newall and Parfitt in the fives-court.
"How fellows can fag about at that stupid game I could never make out," remarked Waterman. "Am I to wait for an answer?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Mind? Not in the least. Waiting is so restful."
He strolled off leisurely with the letter. Paul watched him. He reached the fives-court, and, waiting his opportunity, handed the note to Stanley. He looked at it; then questioned Waterman. A laugh went up from Newall and Parfitt as he did so. Then Stanley, without opening the letter, tore it into fragments and threw them contemptuously into the air.
Waterman thrust his hands deep in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders, and returned to Paul.
"You saw what happened, Percival?" he said.
"Yes, I saw what happened," came the slow answer. "What was it he asked for?"
"He only asked who it was from. I told him."
"And then he deliberately tore my letter up and tossed the pieces in the air. Waterman, I'm sorry that you were so insulted."
"Don't think of me. I rather liked it—really. A snub does one good on a lazy sort of morning like this—it really does."
He was about to pass on, but, checking himself, said in a more serious tone:
"I wish I could have brought you a better answer, Percival."
That day was one of the longest days Paul ever remembered: it dragged so slowly along. There was Stanley in the same room, sitting at times within a few feet of him, and yet they did not look at each other. No word passed between them.
"I will never hold out my hand to him again," said Paul in the bitterness of his heart. He had done all that could be done to bring Stanley to reason, but every effort failed. "He must go his own way, and I must go mine. Some day, perhaps, he'll be sorry that he did not read my letter."
Belonging to the Fourth Form was a boy named Dick Jessel. He was a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy—quite a Saxon type—with a shrewd, sharp wit. His father was the editor of a provincial paper, and Jessel ran a journal of his own at the school, by the aid of a hectograph and Jowitt, of the same Form, who was sub-editor, reporter, and "printer's devil" rolled into one. They were called the "two J's."
A couple of days after the struggle at the sand-pit a number was issued of theGargoyle Record—so the journal was named. Among other items of news appeared the following:
Motto for the Fifth.He who fights and runs awayWill live to fight another day."Lost, stolen, or strayed.—A few pages from the Black Book. Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this paper, will be rewarded.""Hints on Fashion.—A fresher of the Third is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite.""Lost, stolen, or strayed.—Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers.""Notice.—Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.—The rhyme must be a name of some kind—bird, beast, or fish.""Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers—believed to be Beetles."
Motto for the Fifth.
Motto for the Fifth.
He who fights and runs awayWill live to fight another day.
He who fights and runs awayWill live to fight another day.
"Lost, stolen, or strayed.—A few pages from the Black Book. Whoever will bring the same to the P. D., at the office of this paper, will be rewarded."
"Hints on Fashion.—A fresher of the Third is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why. References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite."
"Lost, stolen, or strayed.—Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on a window in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers."
"Notice.—Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to 'hunger.' If any one can oblige the poet we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.—The rhyme must be a name of some kind—bird, beast, or fish."
"Dropped. Somewhere near the sand-pit on Cranstead Common. Honour of the Fifth. When last seen was covered by crawlers—believed to be Beetles."
Plunger was one of the earliest to obtain a copy of theGargoyle Record. He read the first two paragraphs, and then raced into the common room bubbling over with excitement.
Several boys were standing round the fire—some of the Third Form, including Harry Moncrief, Baldry, and Sedgefield; one or two of the Fourth, and three or four of the Fifth, including Stanley Moncrief, Newall—the two were now almost inseparable—Arbery, and Leveson.
"Oh, I say, have you seen the last number of theRecord? It's a slashing number, I can tell you," Plunger burst out.
Immediately everybody was eager to get possession of theRecord. Baldry made a snatch at it.
"No, you don't, Baldhead," said Plunger, putting it behind him, with his back to the wall. "Manners! If you can't listen like a gentleman, you'd better git."
"Don't mind him, Plunger. He's only an outsider," said Arbery soothingly. "Read."
"Read—read!" came in a chorus.
"And keep your eyebrows out of your head while you're about it," said Leveson. "I never saw such eyebrows."
Plunger glared at Leveson.
"Never mind him, Plunger," came the soothing voice of Arbery. "It's only envy, you know. I wish I had eyebrows like 'em. Get on."
"I will get on—I will," said Plunger, with a last savage glance at Leveson. "Listen to this—here's a splendid hit against the Fifth." And he read: "'Motto for the Fifth. He who fights and runs away, Will live to fight another day.' Isn't it just splendid!"
Those of the Fifth who were present maintained a gloomy silence, while those of the lower forms giggled and chuckled softly to themselves. They dared not do it too openly, for fear of bringing down upon their heads the wrath of the senior Form.
When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell rather flat and elicited no comment.
Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a minute or two.
"What's the ass giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some of the comments that greeted him.
"'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'—ho, ho!—'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'—Ho, ho! Hold me up.—'References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up."
Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might sink through.
"Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph, or you'll choke."
"I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought you fellows would like that little tit-bit, so I rushed in here." He took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on—on——"
Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look exceedingly uncomfortable.
"'Last seen in all his native beauty——' Well, Plunger, what are you stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand over theRecordto some one who can."
"Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any one—see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his back.
"Well, read on," shouted Arbery. "We're dying to hear who the Missing Link can be."
"You'd better get a paper of your own, then; I'm not going to read any more of the trash."
"Thought it was a slashing number? What's come over you, Freddy?" asked Baldry.
"Shut up—oh!"
The exclamation came from Plunger as he felt the paper snatched from behind him by Leveson; then, as he tried to regain possession of it, his arms were pinioned behind him by one of the Fifth Form boys.
"Oh, oh, just listen!" laughed Leveson, "and see if you can guess why Plunger put the brake on. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty in the Forum. Believed to have hidden himself in a box so as to escape the notice of his pursuers.'"
There was an outburst of laughter, as all eyes went to Plunger, who was making furious efforts to get away.
"When it's a question of beauty, there's only one person in it," went on Leveson calmly, "and that is——"
"Plunger!" came in a chorus.
"When we do agree, our unanimity is wonderful, as the Head used to tell us," went on Leveson. "Any other pretty bits? Oh—ah! Listen to this: 'Notice. Our poet is stuck for a rhyme to "hunger." If any one can oblige the poet, we'll give him a paragraph all to himself in the next number. N.B.—The rhyme must be a name of some kind—bird, beast, or fish.' Ho, ho! Don't squirm so, Plunger. What branch of the animal kingdom do you belong to?"
While they were shrieking with laughter at his discomfiture Plunger shouted above it all:
"Go on—go on! As you have gone so far, you'd better go on a bit farther. Ah, you're not quite so ready with your reading now, Mr. Leveson."
The laughter suddenly stopped.
"Read—read," came in a chorus.
And Leveson read: "'Dropped—somewhere near sand-pit on Cranstead Common—Honour of the Fifth. When last seen, was covered by crawlers—believed to be Beetles.'"
There was an ominous silence on the part of the senior boys. The juniors tittered. Leveson screwed up the paper in his hand.
"Mind what you're doing, Leveson. That's my paper," cried Plunger. Then there was silence again, as Paul Percival entered the room.
Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter paragraph from theRecord. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his example—Third Form boys as well as Fifth—until one only remained—Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy went out, he glanced up.
"Hallo, Percival! Is that you?"
"Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?" asked Paul bitterly.
"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you."
And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him.
"The fellows were discussing me as I came in?"
"I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in theRecord. That was it."
Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered, had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.
"Paragraph in theRecord," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What have they got to say about Plunger?"
He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself. Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying about—there really isn't."
"You don't mean what you say, Waterman—though it's kind of you to say it. Honour's worth troubling about—one's own honour; the honour of one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."
"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.
"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."
"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like it—the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I like. Just wait your time, you know—take it easy—no flurry—go as you please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is, Percival. So don't worry, old fellow—and don't flurry."
Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone. Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now appeared to be his greatest enemy.
Suddenly it occurred to him—he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write.
So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X.
"I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr. Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your house at Redmead—the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?"
Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his Form—to all the school if need be—what had prevented him from confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit.
But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pass, first of all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pass through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma, Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth.
Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him.
"Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr. Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post."
Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr. Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the arm.