Dick has Friendship thrust upon Him
The lighter the heart the better the work. Roger performed wonders in
the Christmas examinations, and "did Rooke's proud" by taking as many
prizes as Harwood did. Indeed, one of his scalps was the English
Literature prize--a real jar for Harwood, whose supremacy in that
subject had never been previously challenged.
"Owe that entirely to the practice I got writing for the _Rag_, Dick,"
Roger chuckled. "Topping prize, too--well-bound set of Shakespeare.
Old Wykeham didn't half like his 'pet lamb' losing it. He looked
positively sour as Lady Maingay handed me the goods!"
"Imagination, old boy!" laughed Dick. "All the same, I'm overjoyed you
pulled it off so finely. Rooke's House wears a feathered cap to-day.
What'll you say when Harwood comes across to congratulate you?"
"Nothing! Shan't have the chance. He won't come."
Nor did he. It was breaking-up time, and Luke Harwood probably found
enough to do in Holbeck's House without going out of his way to
congratulate his rival. Moreover, he had other excuses for jealousy,
inasmuch as the whole school seemed to be laughing over Roger's
delicious burlesque of the burglary, with its cleverly-rhymed raillery
of the bewildered local police.
Indisputably the new magazine outshone the old on this occasion. Mr.
Rooke and Mr. Holbeck, masters of rival houses, were seen chuckling
over it together, and no success on the playing-fields of Foxenby could
have thrilled the Captain so much. It sent him off for the Christmas
holidays with a brighter feeling than he had known for weeks, and he
went straight to his aunt on his arrival home, confident that in her he
would find the solution of all his money troubles.
Aunt Bella was a tall, athletic, merry-featured woman--a tennis
champion and a golf-prize winner still, but very much prouder of "her
boy's" feats than she was of her own. Usually her eyes twinkled with
the joy of living, but to-day Dick was startled and embarrassed to see
her cheeks wet with tears.
"Cry-baby, am I not, dear lad?" she said. "I quite meant to be as
bright as a button when you arrived, but evidently I am not of the
stuff from which heroines are made. I'm an elderly woman in distress,
and I can't hide it!"
"Oh, I say, Auntie, who's been making you wretched? Show me the
blighter and I'll go for him and punch his head, though he be as big as
a house-side."
Half-laughing and half-crying, Aunt Bella pinched Dick's ear.
"Dear boy, you scent a love-romance! It's nothing like that. And
there are two reasons why you cannot punch his head. He's small and
insignificant and three times your age. Also he's in jail!"
Alarm shot through Dick's heart. "Why, Aunt Bella, have you had a
burglar, too?"
"Too?" Aunt Bella repeated, looking interested.
"Yes--we've had a burglary at school, but never mind that now--tell me
about the chap that's in jail, and why."
"Oh, it's the old tale, Dick. Lonely widow seeks solace in
golf--leaves trusted lawyer to manage her affairs--wakes up one morning
to find that he has coolly spent all the money she has asked him to put
out on mortgage."
"The blackguard!" cried Dick.
"Oh, I'm not the only sufferer--I can survive it better than some of
his other clients, notably the officers' widows, poor souls. Still, I
shall have to give up this house and go into rooms, which I hate.
Moreover, I shall lose my golf, which is worse."
Dick, never a great spokesman, was overwhelmed by this story of his
aunt's misfortune. His own trouble, of which he had been so full a few
minutes before, went clean out of his head. Vainly he racked his
brains for words of comfort and sympathy. A tragedy like this was too
deep for glib consolation.
"Dear old Auntie, I hope he gets fifteen years," he blurted out at
last. "You're a brick to laugh over it. Let--let's get out of this
and have a round of golf--not for the last time, either. Things are
bound to come out all right. There'll be something saved from the
wreck."
Aunt Bella's eyes shone almost happily now. "God bless you, dear boy,
for your cheeriness!" she said. "You've bucked me up no end. Golf?
Why, certainly. We need another enthusiast in the family to carry on
the good work. Come, I'll teach you something that even a football
captain doesn't know!"
From that day until the morning of his return to Foxenby, Dick kept his
mouth shut about his difficulties at school. Twice Aunt Bella pressed
him for particulars of the burglary, and each time he laughed the
matter off. She must never know how greatly the pocket-money she could
no longer send would be missed. Clearly, he could never take a
farthing from her again, and it mortified him to be unable to volunteer
the return of at least some of the cash with which, from his babyhood
upwards, she had always so lavishly supplied him.
In his widowed stepmother it was impossible to confide. She just did
endure his presence in the house at holiday times, and that was all.
She had no use for "a hobble-de-hoy stepson", she had been heard to
say, and quite frankly grudged him what, under his father's will, she
was compelled to pay for his education.
In these cheerless circumstances Dick decided to return to school a day
before the other fellows did, and to make a hole in his scanty
allowance by putting up for one night at the village inn. Thus, he
would be enabled to see the publisher of the _Rag_ and explain things.
Practically it amounted to throwing himself on the printing-manager's
mercy, much as his pride revolted against that course.
At Peterborough everybody alighted from the East Coast express save one
man, a heavily-built individual with a square jaw and glittering black
eyes. He was dressed in tweeds of a "horsey" pattern, and the moment
the train re-started he thrust into Dick's arms a sheaf of coloured
sporting papers.
"Good biz!" he wheezed. "Now that those over-fried old pelicans have
buzzed off, we can breathe. Open that window, sonny! You and I can
suck in some winter ozone without needing a bronchitis-kettle, what?"
Disinclined for conversation, wanting to be alone with his thoughts,
yet incapable of being surly with anyone, Dick acknowledged the loan of
the papers and turned the leaves disinterestedly.
"Not much in your line, sonny, eh? Well, chuck 'em into the rack--the
porter'll simply eat 'em. Can't size up them letters on your cap.
What's your school? Foxenby! Why, that's the team which drew with St.
Cuthbert's in the final. Shan't forget that match in a hurry. Lost a
hundred pounds on it!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dick, surprised into a show of interest.
"Did you have your pockets picked?"
"Not so very much, youngster. I'd like to see the crook that could
pick my pocket and live. When I say that I lost a hundred pounds, I
mean that I stood to win that sum if Foxenby had scored. Everybody in
Walsbridge had a bit on with me--and they backed St. Cuthbert's to a
man. Consequence was, when that dotty waxwork of a mascot chipped in
and spoilt the Foxenby centre-forward's goal, I lost a little fortune
as clean as a whistle."
Dick stared at the bookmaker in unconcealed amazement and disgust.
"Do you say that people actually betted on the match--an amateur game
between rival schools?" he asked. "It's preposterous--incredible!"
"Look here, sonny, how old are you--where were you brought up? You're
either younger than you look, or grass-green for your age. What good's
a football match--any sort of match, boxing, cricket, whatever you
like--if people can't have a little bet on it? Tripe--ditchwater!"
Dick flushed with annoyance. "The cup final was pure sport," he
declared. "To bet on it was positively vile. If you were encouraging
people to do so, you ought to have been warned off the ground."
The bookie laughed harshly at this straight hit. "Oh, I wasn't there
in person, sonny--what I know of the game was from hearsay. But if you
didn't have a little gamble on it yourself, there are other Foxenby
chaps who did."
"It's a lie!" Dick hotly denied. "There isn't a fellow in Foxenby who
would be skunk enough to play it so low down."
"All serene, young feller--keep your hair on. I know what I know, but
we'll not talk about it, as I never betray a client. Anyhow, if that
young Foxenby chap had scored, there'd have been a five-pound note in
the school letter-box for him next day. Just a friendly memento, so to
speak, and no questions asked."
"And straight to the police-station it would have gone, too," was
Dick's indignant comment. "If you try buying over a 'Fox' to your
dirty betting business, you'll find yourself in Queer Street, whoever
you are."
The bookie gazed across at him with serenely-smiling eyes. "What ho!"
he cried. "When I see shells, I guess eggs. So you were the Foxenby
centre-forward that day, eh? Well, youngster, I like spirit. Slang me
back-and-edge, call me dud names, tear my honest business to tatters,
but accept my congratulations as a sportsman on the clinking game you
played that day. My pals still talk about it."
Now Dick was no snob, and too genuinely boyish not to appreciate a word
of praise, from whatever quarter it came. Besides, he realized that
the man was to be his travelling companion for the remainder of the
journey, and that no discouragement could silence him. So, while
saying as little as possible himself, he let the bookmaker run on, and
at last found himself being entertained, in spite of his prejudice, by
the man's racy reminiscences of famous sporting events of the
past-great boxing contests between world champions, doughty wrestling
matches in the Westmorland hills, exciting International games won
"dead on time", all mingled with less savoury stories of the shady side
of sport, where combatants were kidnapped, drugged, or bribed to lose,
so that huge sums of money might go dishonestly into the pockets of the
betting-ring.
The man was a born story-teller, and his determination to be friendly
was such that he insisted on sharing with Dick the contents of a very
excellent luncheon-basket. This the Captain frankly enjoyed, and said
so.
"Yet it took me twenty minutes to persuade you to have a bite," laughed
the bookmaker triumphantly. "Look here, lad, we shall soon be at
Moston, and perhaps I shan't see you again, though I'm generally
knocking about near the market-place. Now, I like you. You've called
me a liar and a thief--that's straight talking, and better than a
cisternful of 'soft soap', though it isn't true of 'Chuck' Smithies,
the commission agent. Still, I've enjoyed your society, and you can
always remember you've got a pal in me if ever you're 'up against it',
and want a lift. Here's Moston, and the best of friends must part, as
the old song says. Come, now, are we going to shake hands or not?"
He put out his hand in an awkward fashion, quite obviously expecting
Dick to ignore it. But the Captain gripped it without hesitation, and
smiled rather shyly back.
"You've been good to me," he said. "I hate betting--yours is a putrid
business--but if I've said anything to hurt your feelings, wash it out.
I'm sorry!"