Dick did not often feel ashamed of himself. He had a knack of keeping
his head above water, even in reverses, which usually stood him in good
stead. But after that mournful scratch match with Cazenove and Wade, he
certainly did feel ashamed.
And, be it said to the credit of his honesty, that he blamed the right
offender. Ponty had been rough on him, but it wasn't Ponty's fault.
Cazenove and Wade had knocked him and his chum into a cocked hat, but it
wasn't Cazenove's or Wade's fault. Heathcote had mulled his game
dreadfully, and done nothing to save the match, but it wasn't
Heathcote's fault. Basil the son of Richard was the guilty man, and
Basil the son of Richard kicked himself and called himself a fool.
Not publicly, though. In the Den, despite the blushes his tennis had
caused, he did his best to keep up his swagger and restore confidence by
a few acts of special audacity; and the Den was forgiving on the whole.
They did feel sore for a day, and showed it; but gradually they came
back to their allegiance, and made excuses for their hero of their own
accord.
If truth must be told, Dick was far more concerned as to the possible
effect of his public humiliation on his election at "the Sociables,"
which was now only a day off.
Braider told him, with rather a long face, that his chances had been
rather shaken by the affair, and that there was again some talk of
pushing Culver against him. This alarming news drove all immediate
projects of virtue out of Dick's head. Not that membership of the club
was his one ideal of bliss; but, being a candidate, he could not bear
the idea of being defeated, particularly by a young ruffian like Culver.
So he indulged in all sorts of extravagances on the last day of his
probation, and led Heathcote on to the very verge of a further
punishment in order to recover some of the ground he had lost with the
"select" twenty.
After school he could settle to nothing till he knew his fate. He
dragged the unsuspecting Heathcote up and down the great Quadrangle
under pretext of discussing Tom White's boat, but really in order to
keep his eye on the door behind which the select "Sociables" sat in
congress.
Heathcote saw there was a secret somewhere, and, feeling himself out of
it, departed somewhat moodily to Pledge's study. Dick, however,
continued his walk, heedless if every friend on earth deserted him, so
long as Culver should not be preferred before him behind that door.
He was getting tired of this solitary promenade, and beginning to wonder
whether the "Select Sociables" had fallen asleep in the act of voting
for him, when a ball pitched suddenly on to the pavement between his
feet.
He couldn't tell where it came from--probably from some window above,
for no one just then was about in the Quadrangle.
He stooped down to pick it up and pitch it back into the first open
window, when, greatly to his surprise, he saw his name written across
it, and discovered that the ball was not a tennis ball at all, but a
round paper box, which came in two as he held it.
Dick was not superstitious. He had scoffed at the Templeton ghost when
he first heard of it, and made up his mind long since it was a bogey
kept for the benefit of new boys.
But it certainly gave him a start to find himself, at this late period
of the term, when he had almost forgotten he ever was a new boy, pitched
upon as the recipient of one of these mysterious missives.
The letter inside was written in printed characters, like those
addressed to Heathcote.
"Dick," it began.
"Hallo," thought Dick to himself, "rather cheek of a ghost to call a
fellow by his Christian name, isn't it?"
"Dick,--Don't be a fool. You were a fine fellow when you came. What
are you now? Don't let fellows lead you astray. You can be a fine
fellow without being a bad one. Let the 'Sociables' alone. They'll
teach you to be a cad. If you don't care for yourself, think of
Heathcote, who only needs your encouragement to make a worse failure
than he has made already. Save him from Pledge. Then you'll be a fine
fellow, with a vengeance. Your real friend,--
"Junius.
"P.S.--Translate 'Dominat qui in se dominatur.'"
The first thing that struck Dick about this extraordinary epistle was,
that it was odd the ghost should write his letters on Templeton exercise
paper. It then occurred to him that it was rather rough to put him
through his paces in Latin idioms at a time like this. Couldn't the
ghost get a dictionary, or ask a senior, and find out for himself?
It then occurred to him, who on earth was it who had written to him like
this? Some one who knew him, that was certain; and he almost fancied it
must be some one who liked him, for a fellow wouldn't take the trouble
to tell him he was a fine fellow at the beginning of the term, and all
that sort of thing, unless he had a fancy for him.
What did he mean by "What are you now?" It sounded as if he meant "You
are not a fine fellow now." Rather a personal remark.
"What's it got to do with him what I am now?" reflected Dick, digging
his hands into his pockets, and resuming his promenade. "And what does
he mean by fellows leading me astray? Like to catch any one trying it
on, that's all. Like to catch _him_, for the matter of that, for his
howling cheek!"
Dick sat down on one of the stone benches, and pulled out the letter for
another perusal.
"'Let the Sociables alone.' Oh, ah! most likely he's been blackballed
himself, and don't like any one to--. Humph! wonder if they _are_ a
shady lot or not? What does he mean by saying they'll teach me to be a
cad? Who'll teach me to be a cad? Not a muff like Braider."
At that moment a door opened at the end of the corridor, and a voice
shouted--
"Richardson!"
It was Braider's voice, and Dick knew it.
He crumpled the letter up in his hand, and the colour came and went from
his cheeks.
"Richardson! where are you?" called Braider again, for it was dusk, and
our hero's seat was screened from view.
Dick coloured again, and bit his lips; and finally got up from the
bench, and strolled off in an opposite direction.
"Richardson! do you hear?" once more shouted the invisible Braider.
Dick walked on in the dusk, wondering to himself whether Braider would
get into a row for kicking up that uproar in the Quad.
At last, after one final shout, he heard the door slam. Then he
quickened his pace, and made for Cresswell's study.
On the staircase he met Aspinall.
"I heard some one calling you out in the Quad.," said the small boy.
"Did you?" replied Dick. "I wonder who it can have been? Is Cresswell
in his study?"
"No."
"All serene. Come back with me. Have you done your swot?"
"Yes, I did my lessons an hour ago."
"Oh!" said Dick, and strode on, followed somewhat dubiously by his young
_protege_.
"Shut the door," said Dick, sternly, as they entered the study.
"Whatever is going to happen to me?" ejaculated the small boy, inwardly,
as he obeyed. Dick had never spoken to him like this before. Had he
offended him unwittingly? Had he been disloyal to his sovereignty?
Dick walked to the fireplace, and, pulling a letter from his pocket,
read it through twice, apparently heedless of his subject's presence.
Then he looked up suddenly, and, crushing the paper viciously back into
his pocket, stared hard at his perturbed companion.
"Young Aspinall," said he, sharply, "do you say I'm a fool?"
"Oh, no," replied the boy, staggered by the very suggestion, "I should
never think of saying such a thing."
"Should you say I was a blackguard?"
"No, indeed, Dick. No one could say that."
The hero's face brightened. There was a warmth in Aspinall's voice
which touched the most sensitive side of his nature. Dick would have
liked the ghost to be near to hear it.
"Should you say I've let myself be led astray, and made a mess of it
here, at Templeton?"
"No, Dick, I don't think so," said the boy.
"What do you mean? _don't think_. Have I, or have I not?" demanded
Dick.
It was a delicate position for the timorous small boy. He had had his
misgivings about Dick, and seen a change in him, not, as he thought, for
the better. But the idea of telling him so to his face was as much as
his peace was worth. Yet he must either tell the truth, or a lie, and
when it came to that, Aspinall could not help himself.
"You are the best friend I've got," said he, nervously, "and I'd give
anything to be as brave as you; but--"
"Well, wire in," said Dick, tearing to bits one of Cresswell's quill
pens with his teeth; "but what?"
"You're so good-natured," said Aspinall, "fellows make you do things you
wouldn't do of your own accord."
"Who makes me do things?" demanded Dick, sternly.
"I don't know," pleaded the boy, feeling that this sort of tight-rope
dancing was not in his line; "perhaps some of your friends in the Fourth
and Fifth. But I may be all wrong."
"What do they make me do?" said Dick.
"They make you," said Aspinall, feeling that it was no use trying to
keep his balance any longer, and that he might as well throw down his
pole and tumble into the net; "they make you break rules and get into
rows, Dick, because you see it goes down with them, and they cheer you
for it. You wouldn't do that of your own accord."
"How do you know that?"
"I don't think you would," said the boy.
If any one had told Aspinall, ten minutes ago, he would be talking to
Dick in this strain, he would have scouted the idea as a bit of chaff.
As it was, he could hardly believe he had said as much as he had, and
waited, in an uncomfortable sort of way, for Dick's next remark.
"Oh! that's what you think, is it?"
"Please don't be angry," pleaded the boy, "you asked me."
"What about Heathcote?" demanded Dick, abruptly, after a pause.
"What do you mean, Dick?"
"I mean, is he making a mess of it, too?"
"Oh, Dick; I never said you were making a mess of it."
"Well, then, is Heathcote being led astray?"
"I don't know. He seems different; and talks funnily about things."
"Does what? I never heard Georgie talk funnily about things, and I've
known him a good bit. Who's leading him astray? Am I?"
Poor Aspinall was on the tight-rope again, at the most ticklish part.
For he did think Dick was running Heathcote into mischief,
unintentionally, no doubt, but still unmistakably, "Am I?" repeated
Dick, rounding on his man, and fixing him with his eyes.
"Heathcote's not so strong-minded as you are, Dick, and when he sees you
doing things, I fancy he thinks he can do them too. But he can't pull
up like you, and so he gets into rows."
"Oh!" said Dick, returning to his quill pen, and completing its
demolition. Then he pulled out the letter, and read it to himself
again, and this time, instead of returning it to his pocket, twisted it
up into a spill, and lit the gas with it.
"What should you say was the English of 'Dominat qui in se dominatur,'
young 'un," he asked, casually, when the operation was complete.
"Why, that's one of the mottoes in the Quad," said Aspinall, wondering
what on earth this had to do with Heathcote's rows. "I always fancied
it meant, 'He rules best, who knows how to rule himself.'"
"Which is the word for best," asked Dick, critically, rather pleased to
have found a flaw in the motto.
"Oh, I suppose it's understood," said Aspinall.
"Why couldn't he say what he meant, straight out?" said Dick, waxing
wondrous wroth at the motto-maker, "there's plenty of room in the Quad
for an extra word."
Aspinall quite blushed at this small explosion, and somehow felt
personally implicated in the defects of the motto.
"Perhaps I'm wrong," said he. "Perhaps it means a fellow can't rule at
all, unless he can rule himself."
"That won't wash," said Dick, profoundly. "Where's the '_nisi_?' Never
mind. Good-night, young Aspinall. I'm going to do my work here."
And Aspinall departed, a good deal exercised in his mind as to Dick's
latest humour, but thankful, all the same, that he didn't appear
desperately offended with the answers he had extorted to his very home
questions.
Dick did not do much "swot" that evening. He couldn't get the ghost out
of his head, nor the slovenly Latin prose of the old Templeton motto-
writer.
"Qui in se dominatur." What Latin! Dick pulled down Cresswell's
dictionary and looked up "se" and "dominatur," and wished he had the
fellow there to tell him he ought to be ashamed of himself. Why, it
might mean "who is ruled by his inside!" Perhaps it did mean that.
But no, Dick couldn't get out of the hobble he was in. He tried every
way, but the right way. He denounced the ghost, he denounced Heathcote,
he denounced the Latin grammar, but they always sent him back to where
he started; until, finally, in sheer desperation, he had to denounce
himself.
He was just beginning this congenial occupation, in as comfortable an
attitude as he could, in Cresswell's easy-chair, when the study door
opened, and Braider entered.
"Hallo! You're here, are you?" said that youth. "Why ever didn't you
come before? I told you to be in the Quad, and I'd call for you; didn't
I? You've got in a nice mess!"
Here was another candid friend going to tell him he'd got into a mess!
"What mess? Who with?"
"Why, with the Club. They elected you by a close shave, and expected
you'd come in. I yelled all over the place for you, and couldn't find
you. So they thought you'd skulked, and were nearly going to take
Culver after all, when I promised to find you, and bring you. They're
waiting for you now."
"Awfully sorry, Braider," said Dick, in an embarrassed way. "I can't
come."
"Can't come, you ass! What do you mean?"
This was just what Dick wanted. As long as Braider was civil, Dick had
to be rational, but as soon as Braider began to threaten, Dick could let
out a bit, and relieve his feelings.
"Look here! who are you calling an ass?" said he, starting up.
Fortunately for the peace, Cresswell at that moment entered the study.
"Hallo!" said he, looking round, "make yourselves at home in my study,
youngsters. Can't you ask a few friends in as well? What's the row?"
"Braider's the row," said Dick; "I want him to cut, and he won't. He
wants me to--"
"All right," said Braider, in sudden concern, lest the secret of the
"Sociables" was to be divulged, "I'll cut. And don't you forget, young
Richardson, what you've promised."
"Of course I shan't," said Dick.
The select "Sociables" sat in congress to a late hour that night. What
passed, no one outside that worthy body exactly knew. But Braider, on
the whole, had a busy time of it.
He did not visit Dick again, but he interviewed both Culver and
Heathcote, and was extremely confidential with each. And both Culver
and Heathcote, after preparation, lounged outside the door, as Dick had
lounged two hours before. And the two loungers, neither of them
fancying the intrusion of the other, came to words, and from words
proceeded to personalities, and from personalities to blows.
And as, in the course of the combat, Heathcote made a mighty onslaught
and caught his enemy round the body and wrestled a fall with him on the
threshold of the "Sociable" door, it so happened that the door, not
being securely latched, gave way beneath the weight of the two
combatants, and swinging suddenly open, precipitated them both on to the
floor of the apartment, just as the Club was proceeding to record its
votes.
Be it said to their credit, the select "Sociables" had a soul above mere
routine, and seeing the contest was even, and that blood was up on both
sides, they adjourned the business and hospitably invited the two
candidates to fight it out there and then.
Which the two candidates did, with the result that, on the whole,
Heathcote got rather less of the worst of it than Culver. Then, having
politely ejected them both, the Club returned to business, and elected
George Heathcote as a fit and proper person to fill the vacancy caused
by the unjust expulsion of the late Alan Forbes.
Heathcote was thereupon brought in and informed of the honour bestowed
upon him; and after being sworn to secrecy, and promising to obey the
Club in all things, was called upon for a speech.