At nine that night the two, as agreed upon, met at Dring in the hotel stables. There had been no mishaps.
The groom was busy putting the horse into the trap, and, when Jack saw what a really smart turn-out Acton had engaged, his fears began to occupy less of his thoughts and the pleasures of a rattling hour's spin a jolly lot more. Punctually to the minute Jack climbed up beside the driver, the place of honour, and Acton swung himself up behind; the yard doors were flung open, and the gig rattled smartly out. The hotel proprietor had not chanted the praises of his horse in vain. On the level road it laid itself out to go for all it was worth.
The pleasant music of the jingling harness and the scurrying of the wheels made as jolly a tune as Jack could wish to hear. There was a touch of frost in the air, which made the quick motion of the gig bite shrewdly on his cheeks, and made him button up his overcoat to the chin and settle his cap well over his ears. Acton threw out jokes, too, from behind, which made Jack feel no end clever to listen to them, and the driver now and then restrained his horse's "freshness" with the soothing mellow whistle which only drivers possess. The farmhouses, hayricks, and an occasional village, drifted past now to the right, now to the left, and occasionally they overhauled a leisurely belated cyclist, who at once began to take an unimportant position in the rear, his lamp growing less and less down the stretch of long white road.
Soon the houses began to come more frequently, then came the streets with their long avenues of yellow lights, and within the hour they were rolling smoothly over the wooden pavements.
"Piccadilly," said Acton. "Drop us at the top of Whitehall, will you? Then you can take the horse to the mews. Be ready for us outside Frascati's by twelve. Understand?"
"Yes, sir, at Frascati's by twelve! I know the place." A minute or two later the two swung off in Trafalgar Square, and the driver rattled away into the crowd.
Jack was delighted. "Spiffing run, Acton, eh?"
"Glad you liked it, young 'un. Now let us localize the Universal Sporting Club. I know it's about Covent Garden somewhere." Together they went up the crowded Strand, Jack enjoying every minute of the bustling walk to the Garden and imagining that he was a very much daring young desperado to be so far from his little white bunk at St. Amory's. He would have been usually fast asleep by this time.
The Universal Sporting Club was not a difficult place to find, and though all its windows were lighted up, upon its fast shut doors were two little notices: "This door will be open at 11 p.m. None but members and friends admitted."
"Well," said Acton, "we've got about twenty minutes before there's any particular need to begin our watch for Raffles, but some of the members are hanging round now. The early birds get the best perch for the show. On the whole, perhaps you'd better prowl about this door now, whilst I go round the corner and see if I can run our fox to his earth."
"All serene," said Jack. "I'll mark time out here till I see you."
Acton walked round the corner, and Jack perambulated about, peering into the faces of the idlers to see if he could spot the well-known and much-detested face of Raffles. He had (of course) no luck.
Five minutes afterwards Acton came back smiling. "Almost first fellow I ran against was Raffles, and I've given him his instructions. He'll hedge for me with the bookie within five minutes."
"So you're quite safe now, Acton?" said Jack, beaming.
"Oh, quite," said Acton, laughing. "Now, Jack, you've been no end brickish, and I'm going to treat you. Ever seen a ballet?"
"No."
"Well, you shall."
A hansom flitted slowly up to them, and Acton hailed it. "In you get, Jack. Kingdom!" said Acton to the cabby. They glided noiselessly through the lighted streets, and in a minute or so were before the "Kingdom Theatre." The two hurried up the steps, and Acton asked an attendant if the ballet were rung up yet.
"No, sir. Two stalls, sir? Certainly. Twelve and thirteen are vacant."
Jack had never seen a ballet before, and when the gorgeous ballet "Katrina" slowly passed before his eyes, and he followed the simple story which was almost interpreted by the lovely music, when every fresh scene seemed lovelier than all the rest, and fairyland was realized before his eyes, his face beamed with pleasure.
"This is ripping, Acton. Isn't Katrina lovely? Jove! I'd hunt for Raffles every blessed night if there was a 'Kingdom' to finish up with!"
His enthusiasm amused Acton.
"It is very pretty, Jack, certainly."
For nearly an hour did Jack sit entranced, and when the orchestra crashed out the last floods of melody in the finale, and when most of the audience rose to go, he trotted out with Acton in a dream.
"We'll have a little supper at Frascati's, young 'un, and then home."
Frascati's completed the enchantment of Bourne. The beauty of the supper-room, the glitter of snowy linen, of mirrors, and the inviting crash of knives, and the clink of glasses, the busy orderliness of the waiters, the laughter, chatter of the visitors, the scents, the sights and sounds, fascinated him. Acton ordered a modest little supper, and when Jack had finally pushed away his plate Acton paid the bill, and went out to find the driver. He was there, the horse almost waltzing with impatience to be off. The two swung themselves up, and in another minute they were whirling along back to St. Amory's.
The St. Amory's clock could be heard striking the half hour after one when Jack and Acton parted at the corner of Corker's garden.
"Jack," said Acton, "good night! and you need not trouble about the £7. You've done more for me than that, and I shall not forget it."
Jack, almost weeping with gratitude, said, "Good night, Acton!" in a fervent whisper, and scuttled over Corker's flower-beds. He pushed up his window and crawled through, and, seeing that all was as he had left it after supper, he undressed and jumped into bed, and in a few minutes slept the sleep of the just.
Acton had managed his re-entrance just as successfully—did he ever fail?—and the thought of Bourne's hopeless rage, when he should find out about Jack's escapade, made him sleep the sleep of the happy man. He was made that way.
The Easter term had been one of unadulterated discomfort for Jim Cotton. He had felt the loss of Gus's helping hand terribly, and he had not yet found another ass to "devil" for him in the way of classics or mathematics. Philips, a former understudy to Gus, was called upon, but with unsatisfactory results, and Cotton, mirabile dictu, was compelled in sheer desperation to try to do his own work. Frankly, the Fifth of St. Amory's was beyond Jim's very small attainments, classical or otherwise. He had been hoisted up to that serene height by no means honoris causa, but aetatis causa. Jim was verging on six feet, and he filled his clothes very well into the bargain, and though his scholarship was strictly junior school, the spectacle of Jim in Fourth Form Etons would have been too entrancing a sight for daily contemplation. Hence he had got his remove. Thrown over by Gus, unable to discover a second jackal for the term so far, he had been left to the tender mercy of Corker, Merishall and Co., and Jim was inclined to think that they showed no quarter to a fallen foe. Corker had been distilled venom on the particular morning with which this chapter deals on the subject of Jim's Greek. Herodotus, as translated by Jim with the help of a well-thumbed Bohn's crib, had emerged as a most unalluring mess of pottage, and Dr. Moore had picked out Bohn's plums from Jim's paste with unerring accuracy. Whilst Cotton was wishing the roof would fall down on Corker's head and kill him, the other fellows in the Fifth were enjoying the fun. Gus Todd, though, felt for his old friend more than a touch of pity, and when old Corker left Jim alone finally, Gus very cleverly kept his attention away from Jim's quarter. When Corker finally drew his toga around him and hurried out, Jim Cotton gathered together his own books and lounged heavily into the street, sick of school, books, Corker, and hating Gus with a mighty sullen hate. For Jim had remarked Gus's sprightliness in the Greek ordeal, but was not clever enough to see that Gus's performance had been only for old friendship's sake. Jim, however, put down Todd's device as mere "side," "show-off," "toadyism," and other choice things, all trotted out specially for his eyes. When he reached his room he flung his Herodotus into the nearest chair, and himself into the most comfortable one, and then beat a vicious serenade on his firegrate with the poker until dinner time.
In the evening, while Jim was moodily planted before a small pile of books, he received a visitor, no less a personage than Philips, Jim's occasional hack.
"Well," said Jim, surlily, "what do you want?"
"I'll tell you in a minute, old boy. Can I have a chair?"
"Can't you see I'm busy?" said Cotton, unamiably.
"You look like it, more or less, certainly."
"Well, I've no time for any oratory to-night, Philips, and that is all about it."
"I'll give you a leg-up for Merishall in the morning if you're decently civil."
"All right, then," said Jim, thawing instantly. "What's the matter?"
"Ever heard of Penfold?"
"No; what was the animal?"
"Well, he was the brightest and most particular star that Taylor ever had in his house; that is, until you pitched your tent among us."
"Don't rot, Philips. What has the Penfold done?"
"Made a chemical discovery which stamps him as one of the first half-dozen chemists in the world."
"Oh," said Jim, wearily; "most interestin', very."
"Here only ten years ago, and, 'pon honour, this was his very den."
"Have noticed the place to be stuffy," said Jim, with no enthusiasm, "and now that is explained. Suppose he lived with his nose in books and test-tubes?"
"And," said Philips, ignoring Jim's heavy wit, "the Fifth and Sixth Form fellows in Taylor's think we ought to take notice of it somehow."
"Now, I wouldn't," said Cotton, critically; "I'd keep a thing like that dark."
"You heathen!"
"If he'd pulled stroke at Cambridge, or anything like that——"
"We thought a tablet on the wall, or something of that sort, would meet the case. Corker's dining-hall is lined with 'em."
"Get to the point," said Jim, grimly.
"A sub. of five shillings among seniors, and half a crown among the kids, would meet the case, I think."
"And did you think I'd spring a crown for a marble tablet to a mug like Penfold?"
"Rather," said Philips.
"Well," said Jim, "life would be worth living here if it weren't for the unearthly smugging, but as it is St. Amory's is about as lively as a workhouse. I'm not forking out on this occasion. Taylor's smugs must do all that is necessary to be done."
"Well," said Philips, "all the other fellows have given in their names, bar you and Todd."
"Oh!" said Jim, with sudden interest, "you've asked Todd, have you?"
"Of course. Gus seemed rather waxy that he should be called upon. One might almost fancy he hadn't got the five shillings."
"Todd evidently is a miserable miser," said Jim, with a bitter smile at the thought of Gus's insolvent condition. "He isn't the same fellow he used to be."
"Jove, no!" said Philips; "he's come on no end this term. He's an improvement on the old Gus."
"Yes," said Jim, angrily; "the beaks have got him into their nets. But he ought to subscribe to the Penfold, when he's the biggest smug in Taylor's."
"And you ought too, Jim, since you've the biggest money-bags."
"All right," said Jim, "I'll subscribe. 'Twill look better if we all subscribe."
"You're a funny ass, Cotton. I thought I was going to draw you blank. What's the reason for your sudden change of mind?"
"I don't want to be bracketed equal with Toddy."
"That's settled, then," said Philips, who was puzzled at Jim's sudden change of front. "And now let's see to Merishall's work for the morning."
The subscriptions for a tablet in the great Penfold's honour were not hard to obtain, the upper form fellows in Taylor's dunning the rest of the house without mercy, and, to the great wonder of all, the foremost of the duns was James Cotton, Esq. The way he squeezed half-crowns out of the fags was reckoned little short of marvellous, and before the week was out every Taylor fellow had subscribed bar Gus. Jim's exertions were rewarded by the office of secretary to the Penfold Fund.
"We'll get a house list, Philips, and pin up a proper subscription list on the notice-board. The thing will look more ship-shape then. By the way, what was it the Penfold did? Is he dead?"
"You are a funny fellow, Cotton. Here you are sweating the half-crowns out of the fags and you don't know why you're doing it."
"That is just what I do know," said Jim, smiling serenely.
When the list was pinned up on the board, and opposite each fellow's name appeared the half-crown or crown he had contributed, it made a brave show. Towards the end of the list opposite the name of Todd, A.V.R., there had occurred a dismal blank thoughtfully filled by secretary Cotton with a couple of beautifully even lines ruled in staring red ink. This vivid dash of colour on the white paper gave poor Gus quite an unsolicited advertisement, and since none of the other fellows knew of Gus's circumstances, it practically put him in the pillory as a tight-fisted old screw. This result was exactly what Jim Cotton had in his mind when he fell in with the tablet scheme so enthusiastically. Pretty mean, wasn't it?
When Gus saw the staring red abomination for the first time it made him feel that he would like to pour a little boiling oil over the secretary of the fund, for to a fellow of Gus's temperament the chaffing remarks of his acquaintances and the knowing looks of the juniors made him shiver with righteous anger. He did not like being pilloried. He had desperate thoughts of going and publicly kicking Cotton, but he remembered, fortunately, that Jim would probably only make one mouthful of him. But he paced his room angrily, and except that he really meant to keep himself to his resolution of honourable poverty to the term's end he would have written home. Not to do so cost him a struggle.
There was some one else who eyed this plain manifesto of Gus's position with anger, and that was the Rev. E. Taylor himself. The house-master had not been a house-master for years for nothing, and he guessed pretty shrewdly that some one was writing off a debt with interest against Gus. The house-master made a still shrewder guess as to who this might be, for he had watched the dissolution of the partnership of Cotton and Todd with great interest.
Thus it was that Philips was called into Taylor's room for a quiet little chat on house matters. "Your idea of a memento to Penfold was an excellent one, Philips, and the house seems to have taken it up very heartily."
"Oh yes!" said Philips, naïvely. "The fellows have taken any amount of interest, especially Cotton."
"Cotton's is rather a case of Saul among the prophets, isn't it, Philips?"
"This sort of thing didn't quite seem his line before, sir."
"No; I never thought so myself; but it is very pleasant to make a mistake, too. I see Todd, who is the best chemist in the house, does not subscribe at all."
"Most of the fellows thought it rather strange."
"And said so, no doubt?" said the master, looking abstractedly at his finger-nails.
"H'm!" said Philips, feeling uncomfortable at this thrust. "They may have."
"You see, Philips," said Taylor, gently, "there ought to have been no quizzing of Todd, for a contribution to a matter like this ought to be entirely voluntary—most emphatically so, I think. And if Todd does not see his way to subscribe—and he is the sole judge—there ought to be no remarks whatever."
"I see, sir," said Philips, dubiously.
"I was much annoyed to see that Todd's name has been prominently before the house for the last day or so."
"You mean on the notice-board, sir?"
"Yes; I can quite see why it is. The honorary secretary has not had much experience in this clerical work before, so he has fallen into a great mistake. In fact," said the house-master, bluntly, "the secretary's taste is not to be depended on."
"I don't think Cotton meant anything——" began Philips.
"Well, perhaps not," said the Rev. E. Taylor, doubtfully; "but, in any case, will you take down the present list, and draw up a fresh one—if you think one at all necessary—with only the names of subscribers upon it? A house list should not have been used at all. Please tell Cotton I said so, and I hope he will see the fairness of it."
Philips took down the offending list, and told Cotton the house-master's opinions. Jim Cotton had not very quick feelings, but contempt can pierce the shell of a tortoise, and as Philips innocently retailed the message, the secretary of the Penfold Tablet Fund knew there was one man who held him a cad.
Jack had gone to London with his patron on Thursday. On Saturday morning Acton went to Aldershot, carrying with him the hopes and good wishes of the whole of St. Amory's, and at night the school band had met him at the station. They (the band) struggled bravely—it was very windy—with "See, the Conquering Hero comes!" in front of the returned hero, who was "chaired" by frenzied Biffenites. The expected had happened. Acton had annihilated Rossal, Shrewsbury, and Harrow, and in the final had met the redoubtable Jarvis, from "Henry's holy shade." The delightful news circulated round St. Amory's that Acton had "made mincemeat" of Jarvis. He had not, but after a close battle had scrambled home first; he had won, and that was the main thing.
As Acton walked into chapel on Sunday morning with Worcester, Corker got scant attention to his sermon; the fags to a man were thinking of Acton's terrible left. The gladiator lived in an atmosphere of incense for a whole day.
As Phil Bourne was finishing breakfast on Monday morning his fag brought him his letters, and, after reading his usual one from home, he turned his attention to another one, whose envelope was dirty, and whose writing was laboriously and painfully bad amateur work.
"Rotherhithe," said Phil, looking at the post-mark. "Who are my friends from that beauty spot?"
I give the letter in all its fascinating simplicity.
"Rotherhithe, Sunday.
"Dear Sir,
"I was sory as how I did not see you on thursday night when you came with Acting to Covent garden to do a small hedging in the linkinsheer handicap. I think since you did a fare settle about the gunn and pade up my little bill like a mann you would deserve the show at the "Kindumm" and the blow out at that swell tuck shop as Mister Acting said he was going to treat you to for coming with him to london. I hopes you enjoyed em and As how that stiff necked old corker your beak—won't never find out.
"As you gave him the Propper slip and no Errer your beastly Chummy
"Daniel Raffles."
The letter had evidently been meant for Jack, but had naturally reached Phil, since the envelope was directed to "Mr. Bourne."
Bourne, when he had struggled to the end of this literary gem, dropped the letter like a red-hot coal. Was it a hoax, or had Jack really gone up to town, as the letter said?
The "Mister Acting" made Phil's heart sink with dire forebodings.
"Go and find young Bourne, Hinton, and tell him to come here to my study at once, or as soon as he's finished breakfast."
Jack came in whistling a jolly tune; he was in full bloom, for had he not now left all his cares behind him?
"You can cut, Hinton; and, Jack, take a chair and give me an explanation of this letter."
Jack read Raffles' letter through to the bitter end, and wished he had never been born. Phil eyed his young brother, who had turned deathly white, with the horrible certainty that Jack had gone up to London.
"Then it's true?" he said.
No answer.
"Jack, I know you could speak the truth once. Look at me. Did you go to London on Thursday night?"
"Yes," said Jack, faintly.
"Did Acton take you?"
"Yes."
"You know that if Dr. Moore hears of it he will expel you."
"Yes."
"You went to oblige Acton?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever think what pater would think if he heard about this?"
Jack, as a matter of course, had thought many a time of what his father would think about the business, and when Phil in that level voice of his recalled him to this terrible point he broke down.
"Phil, do not tell pater; he'd never forgive me! Nor Corker. Cut me into ribbons if you like, only don't let me be expelled."
"Here," said Phil, "I don't want any snivelling in my room. Cut, you miserable puppy, to your own quarters, and when school is over keep to them till I come. You're a contemptible little puppy."
Jack hurried out, crunching Raffles' letter in his fist. He went straight to Acton's room, and, bursting in whilst Acton was drinking his last cup of coffee, blurted out the dismal news. Jack was almost hysterical in his rage against Raffles.
"Acton, I believe that filthy blackmailer meant Phil to get that letter: he wanted to round on me and get me into trouble. Oh!" said Jack, in a very explosion of futile rage, "if I could only pound his ugly face into a jelly."
"Well, perhaps you'll have that pleasure one day, Jack. I hope so, anyhow. Now, straight, Jack, you need not be frightened of your brother saying a word. He could never risk Corker hearing of it, for he could not bear the chance of expulsion, so he'll lie low as far as Corker is concerned, take my word for it. He may hand you over to your father, but that, too, I doubt. He may give you a thrashing himself, which I fancy he will."
"I don't mind that," said Jack. "I deserve something."
"No, you don't, old man; and I'm fearfully sorry that I've got you into this hole. But your brother will certainly interview me."
"I suppose so," said Jack, thoughtfully, even in his rage and shame. "I hope there is no row between you;" for the idea of an open quarrel between Phil and Acton made Jack rather qualmish.
"You'd better cut now, Jack, and lie low till you find out when the hurricane is going to commence."
Jack went away, and as the door closed softly behind him Acton smiled sweetly.
"Well, Raffles has managed it nicely, and carried out my orders to the strokings of the t's. He is quite a genius in a low kind of way. And now I'm ready for Philip Bourne, Esq. I bet I'm a sight more comfortable than he is." Which was very true.
I, of course, knew nothing of all these occurrences at the time, and the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was when Phil Bourne came into my room and gave me a plain unvarnished account, sans comment, of Acton's and young Bourne's foolery in London.
"I'm awfully glad, old man, that I am able to tell you this, because, although you're Captain of the school, you can't do anything, since Acton is a monitor."
(It is an unwritten law at St. Amory's that one monitor can never, under any circumstances, "peach" upon another.)
"Well, I'm jolly glad too, Bourne, since your brother's in it."
"What has to be done to Acton? Jack, of course, was only a tool in his hands."
"Oh, of course. It is perfectly certain that our friend engineered the whole business up to and including the letter, which was meant for you."
"Do you really think that?" said Phil.
"I'm as certain of it as I can be of anything that I don't actually know to be true."
"Why did he do it?"
"Do you feel anything about this, old man?"
"I feel in the bluest funk that I can remember."
"Then, that's why."
"You see, I cannot put my ringer on the brute."
"He has you in a cleft stick. Who knows that better than Acton?"
"I'm going to thrash Jack, the little idiot. I distinctly told him to give Acton a wide berth."
"Jack, of course, is an idiot; but Acton is the fellow that wants the thrashing."
Phil pondered over this for fully five minutes.
"You're right, old man, and I'll give—I'll try to give—him the thrashing he deserves."
"Big biz," said I. "You say you aren't as good as Hodgson; Hodgson isn't in the same street as Acton; ergo, you aren't in the same parish."
"That's your beastly logic, Carr. Does a good cause count for nothing?"
"Not for much, when you're dealing with sharps."
"I see you've inherited your pater's law books. The school goes home to-morrow, doesn't it? Well, my Lord Chief Justice, in what relation do you stand towards the school to-morrow? Are you Captain?"
"No," said I, in my best legal manner. "There is no school to-morrow—ergo, there cannot be a captain of a non-existent thing. To-morrow is a dies non as far as I'm concerned. Why this thirst for knowledge, Phil?"
"Because I want you to be my second against Acton, and I didn't want your captaincy to aid or abet me in a thing which is against rules."
"I see," said I, warmly, "and I will sink the rules and all the rest, and trust to a little rough justice being done on an arrant scamp."
"Thanks," said Phil. "With you as second and a good cause, I ought to teach Acton a little genuine lesson."
"I'd rather trust in a good straight left."
"All right, then. I'll see Acton now, and bring him to the point."
"Do, and let me have the result."
Phil swung off in that cool, level-headed fashion which is peculiarly his own. He had thought the matter out thoroughly in that five minutes' brown study, and now that he had put his hand to the plough he would not look back. I liked the set shoulders and his even step down the corridor. Surely something must reach Acton now! He walked down the street, turned in at Biffen's yard, and mounted up to Acton's room. He knocked firmly on the partly open door, and when he heard Acton's "Come in," walked solidly in.
Acton smiled amiably when he saw his visitor, and, with his half-foreign politeness, drew out a chair.
"No, thanks," said Phil, icily; "but, if you've no objection, I'd like to close your door. May I?"
"By all means."
"My opinion of you, Acton——"
"Why trouble about that, Bourne; I know it.".
——"is that you're an unmitigated cad."
"Gently, friend, gently," said Acton, half getting up.
"You, by your foul play, have disfigured poor Aspinall for life——"
"Bourne, you're a monomaniac on that subject. I've had the pleasure of telling you once before that you were a liar."
"And you did not get your 'footer' cap for it, which seems such a paltry punishment for so villainous a crime."
"That is stale, stale," said Acton, coolly.
"You entice my brother to London, which means expulsion for him if it is found out by Dr. Moore."
"I believe that's the rule."
"The expulsion of Jack would bring disgrace on an honest name in the school and give pain to an honest gentleman——"
"The pity o' 't," said Acton, with a sneer.
"And so, since you, by a kind of malicious fate, seem to escape all proper punishment——"
"You should be a parson, Bourne."
"I'm going to try to give you your deserts myself."
"An avenging angel. Oh, ye gods!"
"Do you mind turning out at the old milling ground at seven sharp to-morrow morning?"
"The mornings are chilly," said Acton, with a snigger. "Besides, I don't really see what pressing obligation I'm under to turn out at that time for the poor pleasure of knocking you down."
"I never thought you were a coward."
"How charitable!"
"But we must bring you to book somehow. Will you fight—now?"
Before he had time to avoid the blow Phil had struck him lightly on the face. For one half second a veritable devil peeped out of Acton's eyes as he sprung at Phil. But Phil quickly backed, and said coolly, "No—no, sir! Let us do the thing decently and in order. You can try to do all you wish to-morrow morning very much at your ease. I apologize for striking you in your own room, but necessity, you know——"
"Bourne, you'll regret that blow!"
"Never," said Phil, emphatically, and with cutting contempt. "I have asked Carr to second me. I dare say Vercoe would do the same for you. He has the merit of being a perfectly straightforward fellow, and since he does not go home like the rest to-morrow——"
"Thanks. Vercoe will do excellently. He is a friend of yours, too!"
"I'm glad to say he is."
"Well, you may now be pretty certain there will be no foul play, whatever else may follow. I'll teach you wisdom on your front teeth."
"I dare say," said Phil, as he coolly stalked out, and left Acton curled up on his chair, like a cobra balancing for its stroke.
One morning Gus was much astonished to receive a letter containing a blank sheet of notepaper enfolding a postal order for £1. This was properly filled in, payable to A.V.R. Todd at St. Amory's Post-office, but there was not the slightest clue as to the sender. Gus looked at the blue and white slip in an ecstasy of astonishment. Now, Gus knew that no one was aware of his bankrupt exchequer save Cotton, and he knew that Jim was not likely to have said anything about it for one or two very good reasons, and would now keep it darker than ever. If it were known that Gus had been practically pilloried for being penniless by the fellow who had lifted his cash, Cotton would have heard a few fancy remarks on his own conduct which would have made his ears tingle. Gus pondered over this problem of the sender until he felt giddy, but he finally came to the conclusion that Cotton had regretted his polite attentions to an old friend, and had sent the order as a kind of amende honorable. Gus instantly regretted the fervent wishes about the boiling oil and the public kicking for Jim Cotton, and he also determined to go and thank his old patron for what he was sure was his anonymous gift.
So, after breakfast, he cashed the order and, with pockets heavier with coin than they had been for some time, he went to Jim Cotton's room. Jim received him with an odd mixture of anger and shame, and when Gus handed over to him two half-crowns, Cotton in some confusion, told him to hand them over to Philips, who had initiated the subscription for the Penfold tablet.
"Thought you were the secretary?" said Gus.
"No! I'm out of the boat now. Philips is the man," said Cotton, sulkily.
"And, by the way, Jim, it wasn't half bad of you to send me that order. It was no end brickish, especially after I had left you more or less in the lurch."
"What order?" said Jim, looking curiously at Gus.
"What's the good of trying to pass it off like that, old man? It could only be you."
"I don't know what you're driving at. You seem to be talking rot," said Cotton, angrily, for he fancied that Gus was fooling him in some way.
"Well, I've got an order for £1 this morning, envelope stamped St. Amory, and it could only come from some one who knew I was stumped, and you're the only fellow who knew that, unless, indeed, you've been kind enough to tell some of the fellows."
"I've told no one; and anyway, I didn't send the order."
"Oh, rot!"
"Thanks! I don't tell lies as a rule, and I say I know nothing whatever about your order. I think you'd better cut now, instead of wasting my time with this rotten foolery."
"You didn't send it?" said Gus, finally, with more than a dash of irritation in his voice at the continued boorishness of Cotton.
"No, I tell you! Shall I get a foghorn and let you have it that way?"
"Then, look here, Cotton. If you didn't send it, your underscoring of my name on the house list because I couldn't subscribe was the act of an arrant cad."
Cotton winced at Gus's concise definition, but he said, "Oh, get out, you fool!"
"Fool, or not," said Gus, becoming more angry every moment as he thought of his wrongs, "I'm not an underbred loafer who cleans a fellow out of his cash and then rounds on him because he can't pay his way. Why, a Whitechapel guttersnipe——"
"Can't appreciate the allusion," said Jim; "I've never been to Whitechapel. But anyhow, Todd, there's the door. I think you had really better go."
"Not till I've said you're the biggest bounder in St. Amory's."
"Now you've said it you really must go, or I'll throw you out!"
Gus was too taken up with his own passion to notice that Cotton was also at about the limit of his patience, and that Jim's lips had set into a grim and ugly sneer. Todd was furiously trying to find some clinching expression which would quite define Jim's conduct, when that gentleman took one stride forward and caught him by the collar. The grip, the very touch of Cotton's fingers maddened Gus beyond all bearing. His anger broke loose from all control; he wrenched himself out of Cotton's grasp and passionately struck him on the mouth.
Cotton turned grey with passion as bitter as Todd's and repaid Gus's blow with interest. Gus dropped to the floor, bleeding villainously. Cotton thereupon jerked him to his feet, and threw him out of the room.
Gus picked himself up from the corridor floor and went to his own room, his face as white as a sheet and his heart as black as ink. What Gus suffered from his passion, his shame, his hatred, and the pain of his old friend's blow, for the next few hours words will not tell. He attended morning school, his head in a whirl of thought. Cotton was there too, and, could looks have killed, Jim Cotton would not have been in the land of the living for very long. When Merishall went, Gus waited until all the form had filed out, and, still dizzy and sick, he wearily followed suit and turned in at his own door. As Gus came into the room some one rose up and faced round to meet him, and Todd found himself once more face to face with Cotton.
Now, the blow which had tumbled down Gus so heartily had, so to speak, tumbled down the striker in his own mind just as thoroughly. Jim Cotton's mind was not a subtle one, but the minute after he had floored Gus and shut the door on him, his better mind told him distinctly that he was a cad. Why? Because when he struck Gus the feeling was as though he had struck a cripple. Gus had doubled up under the weight of his hand as though he had been a leaf. Cotton dimly felt that for a fellow of his build and weight to let Gus have the full benefit of both was not fair. "That is how it must feel, I suppose, to strike a girl. My fist seems unclean," he said, in huge disgust. "I'd give Todd his three sovs. back if I could recall that blow. I wish I'd left the fool alone, and anyhow, it's my opinion I don't shine much in our little squabble. Todd has been playing the man since his Perry cropper, and I've been playing the cad just because he was once useful to me and I did not want to let him go." Cotton devoted the next few hours to a little honest unselfish thinking, and the result was that he came pretty near to despising himself. "I'll go and apologize to Gus, and if he shies the poker at my head I'm hanged if I dodge it."
That is why Gus was received in his own room by the fellow who had so lately knocked him down. Gus stared at Jim, his swollen lip trembling with anger and his eyes blazing with indignation.
"I say, Gus, old man, I am an utter out-and-out cad, and I've come to apologize."
Gus murmured something indistinctly.
"When I knocked you down I did the most blackguardly thing that even I have ever done, and, you may believe me or not, I am now about disgusted with myself. I felt that there was only one thing that I could do, and that was to apologize."
Jim was so obviously cut up by remorse that Gus thereupon buried the hatchet. He did not throw the poker at Jim's head, and you may be surprised to hear—or you may not—that Gus and Jim Cotton took their after-dinner coffee at Hooper's, as in the old time. The conversation was staccato at first, but interesting.
"But who sent the order?" said Gus.
"Dunno, really; but I could almost bet my boots that Taylor is the criminal."
"Taylor! What does he know of my affairs?"
"Well, that beastly house list with your red raw agony column made him most suspicious, and I believe he knows to a hair exactly how big a cad I've been."
"Go on, old man; leave that."
"He sucked Philips dry about the Penfold tombstone, and although he said nothing to me personally, Philips gave me to understand that I'm not in favour with the parson. Taylor is the man who's provided your sub. for the Penfold, take my word for it."
"He's not half such a bad fellow, Jim."
"No," said Jim, with an uneasy laugh; "Taylor's all right, but he'll make me squirm when he has the chance."
The friendship of Cotton and Todd was thus renewed and cemented—with Gus's bluest blood. Gus gave Jim some good advice about the schools, which made Jim feel a bit dubious.
"Chuck your Bohn's cribs and your keys under the grate, and show up your own work."
"Footle, you mean, Gus."
"All right, footle, then. I know all our own private personal beaks would rather have a fellow's own work, if of fair quality, than all the weirdest screeds from any crib whatsoever."
Jim made the experiment, very gingerly, be it said, but did show up his own work, and from Corker to Merishall all the beaks were civil to him. Gus's reputation as a prophet was established, for Corker himself seemed pleased with the Cottonian version of Herodotus.
"Rather rough in parts, Cotton," said the old man, beaming on the shrinking Jim; "but at least you've not been ploughing Herodotus with the help of your old ass, Bohn."
Jim's effort, however, came too late to affect in any degree his position in the Fifth. When the lists of the Easter term were published, Cotton was the last, deservedly, of the form, but A.V.R. Todd was the seventh. This was an eye-opener to many in the form, but the result sent Gus into the seventh heaven of delight. Taylor came specially into Todd's modest sanctum to congratulate him, and Corker sent an extra special letter to Todd senior, saying all manner of sweet things about Gus. He put the highest mark of his favour upon the delighted Gus by asking him to dinner—a very great honour, but a dreadful ordeal. Gus was wonderfully nervous as he commenced his soup. How do I know? Well, I had been asked, I believe, to give the bewildered Gus a little countenance. Gus went home, a day or two later, to the bosom of his family, where he was treated with the utmost honour. He redeemed the watch from the jeweller, and fulfilled his own promise to that worthy man. All through the holidays he basked in the smiles of his proud father, and rode that gentleman's pedigree hack. Corker's highest mark of appreciation was to give you a dinner; with Gus's father it was to let you ride his own horse.