“Yes, I know,” he said; “but the question is, What do I do now? You see
‘all’s fair’ and all that; but now, being out of the hunt, ought I to
throw up the sponge and tell the truth, or ought I not?”
“I don’t know, Bradwell,” I said; “but anyway you won’t mention me, I
hope, because I only acted for you, and did a jolly dangerous thing.”
“No, you’re safe enough, and, in fact, I’m going to reward you for what
you _did_ do,” said Bradwell. “But seeing I’m out of it, I think it will
be a manly act to Browne if I tell Mabel frankly that I resorted to
strateji.”
“But me?” I said.
“I shall merely inform her,” answered Bradwell, “that one of my
emissaceries found the poem, and, of course, brought it to me; that I
despatched it--as a joke, taking care not to say I was the auther. I
shall end with these words: ‘Browne is innosent.’”
All of which he did, and I left the letter in the usual spot. But Mabel
cut him altogether from that day; and he told me girls have no humer and
laughed it off, though he felt it a lot, and often smacked my head out
of bitterness of mind afterwards, but not hard. He gave me an old knife
for a reward, but told me at the same time never to do anything for him
again without being commanded.
As for Mabel, she threw over Browne just like she threw over Bradwell,
in spite of Bradwell’s letter; and Bradwell said it was a nemmecis,
whatever that is; and I had a nemmecis to, because a week afterwards
Bradwell threw over me and made young West his fag. I felt hert, but, of
corse, that didn’t get known to Bradwell; and if I fag again, I wont so
much as make a peece of toste unless I’m commanded to.