"HE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A LEPER"
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.