Pledge did well to sleep sweetly and enjoy his triumph while it lasted,
for the battle which raged over the soul of George Heathcote was by no
means ended yet.
"I say, Georgie," said Dick, next day, as the "Firm" took a Sunday
afternoon stroll along the cliffs. "Where on earth did you get to
yesterday? You never turned up at football practice, and skulked all
the evening."
Georgie coloured. His conscience had already smitten him for detaching
himself from his leader at a time of danger like the present; still
more, for deserting him for a fellow like Pledge.
One result of Dick's sovereignty had been that the "Firm" had contracted
a habit of telling the truth to one another on all occasions. It was
found to be the shortest cut to friendship, and a vast saving of time
and trouble.
Georgie, therefore, however much his inclination, as moulded by Pledge,
may have led him to prevaricate, replied, "I was in Pledge's study."
Dick whistled, rather a dismayed whistle.
"I thought you were out of that," he said.
"So did I; but, I don't know, Dick. He's got to know all about our row,
and if I don't be civil to him he'll let out on us."
"How does he know? Who's told him?"
"I never did," said Coote.
"I can't fancy how he heard. But he knows all about it, and he as good
as says he'll spoil our chance for the 'Sociables' if I don't fag for
him."
"Beastly cad!" murmured Dick.
"He says, you know," pursued George, "that it was all a spite of
Mansfield's against him--that making me Swinstead's fag. They knew it
would make him resign. It is rather low, isn't it, to humbug me about
just for the sake of spiting someone else?"
"It's all a lie, Georgie. Pledge is one of the biggest cads in
Templeton. I heard lots of people say so. Webster said so. He says
he'd no more let a boy of his go near Pledge than he'd fly; and
Webster's not particular."
"And I heard Cartwright say," said Coote, by way of assisting the
discussion, "that Pledge has done his best to make a cad of you, and
nearly succeeded."
"He said that?" said Georgie, hotly; "like his cheek! Has he done so,
Dick?"
"Not much," said Dick, frankly.
"I don't feel myself a cad," said poor Heathcote.
"Perhaps fellows can't always tell, themselves," said Coote.
There was a pause after this, and the "Firm" walked on for some distance
in silence. Then Dick said:
"You'll have to jack him up, Georgie, that's all about it."
"But I tell you he'll let out on us," pleaded Georgie, "and really I've
only said I'll fag now and then for him."
"Can't help, Georgie; We don't want to have you made a cad of. It would
smash up our 'Firm,' wouldn't it, Coote?"
"Rather," said Coote.
"Besides," said Dick, "he's such a cad, no one would believe him if he
did tell of us. My father would shut him up. He'll be down, you know,
on Tuesday."
Heathcote breathed hard. But when it came to a question of choosing
between Pledge and the "Firm," it needed no very desperate inward battle
to decide.
"What had I better do?" he asked.
"Cut him," said Dick.
"But suppose I've promised him?"
"That's a nuisance. Never mind, we're all in it, so we'll send him a
letter from the 'Firm' and tell him you cry off. It's a bad job, of
course, but it can't be helped, and we'll back you up, won't we, Coote?"
"I should rather say so," replied the genial junior partner.
So, that quiet Sunday afternoon, in an unpretentious and unsentimental
way, a very good stroke of work was done, not only for the soul of
Georgie Heathcote, but for Templeton generally.
The "Firm" were by no means elated at their decision, for they had yet
to learn what revenge the senior would take upon them. Still, the
effort and the common peril knit them together in bonds of closer
brotherhood, and enabled them to face the future, if not cheerily, at
least, with grim determination.
Pledge was considerably astounded that evening, just as he was
speculating on the reason of Heathcote's non-appearance, to see Coote's
round head suddenly thrust in at the door, and a small billet tossed on
to the table.
Pledge was getting used to small billets by this time, and was rather
tired of them. Coote, as he knew, was Cartwright's fag; he therefore
concluded that Cartwright was the writer of the note, and that being so,
he pitched the paper unopened into the empty fireplace with a sneer.
He waited for another half-hour, and still Heathcote did not appear.
Pledge didn't like it, and began to grow concerned. Was it possible,
after all, he had made too sure of his young friend?
Partly to pass the time, and partly with the vague idea that might throw
some light on the matter, he had the curiosity to pick the neglected
billet out of the hearth and open it.
His face went through a strange series of emotions as he read its
extraordinary contents:--
Our Dear Pledge,--We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can't
fag for you. He doesn't believe he really promised, but must be
excused. We've made him do it because we don't want him to be made a
cad. He is very sorry, and hopes you won't be a cad and let out about
the row we are in. Excuse this short letter, and, with kind regards,
believe us, our dear Pledge, your affectionate young friends, B.
Richardson, G. Heathcote, A.D. Coote. Sunday afternoon.
This masterpiece of conciliatory firmness, which had cost the "Firm" an
hour's painful labour to concoct, brought out the angry spots on
Pledge's cheeks and forced some bad language from his lips.
The letter he had received from Mansfield a week ago had been nothing to
this. Mansfield and he were equals, and a reverse at Mansfield's hands
was at least an ordinary misfortune of war.
But to be coolly flouted, and to have all the work of a term upset by
three wretched youngsters, who called themselves his affectionate young
friends, was a drop too much in the bucket of the "spider's"
humiliation.
He stared at the letter in a stupid way, like one bewildered. Even its
quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a
sneer on his lips. Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and
that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion
had reached its climax.
If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the
face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?
The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr
Webster's pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.
How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not
to be impatient. Wednesday was to be the great election for the
"Sociables," and, if our heroes' names appeared on the list, as rumour
already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till
then.