"Would you like to know what he was saying about you?"
"Not a bit," said he, so decisively that I relapsed again into silence.
"Look here, kid," said he, presently, and with unwonted seriousness.
"I'm not a saint, and don't profess to be. And I may not be able to
manage my own affairs, to judge by what you and half a dozen other of
the fellows seem to think; but I don't want to see you--well, come to
grief--and that's what you're likely to do if you let that fellow get
hold of you."
"He's not got hold of me," said I, feeling a little hurt once more.
"Mayn't I be civil to a fellow, even? Why, he was saying if you--"
"Shut up! didn't I tell you I don't want to hear?" said he.
"Oh, all right."
If he had only vouchsafed to tell me why he disliked Crofter, or if he
had given his counsel in a less authoritative way, it would have been
different. He would not even let me repeat the friendly remarks Crofter
had made about him; and was determined neither to say a good word for
the fellow himself, nor let me say one.
The consequence was that our interview ended in my wishing once more I
had confined myself to my own quarters and let ill alone.
My companions were not long in discovering that something was on my
mind, and in their gentle way tried to cheer me up.
"What's the row--ear-ache?" demanded Trimble.
"He's blue because he's not had lines to-day," suggested Langrish.
"Perhaps his washerwoman has sent in her bill," said Coxhead.
"You'll get kicked out of here, if you look so jolly blue," said
Warminster. "It's stale enough this term, without having a chap with a
face like a boiled fish gaping at you."
"Look here," said I, resolved to be candid as far as I dare. "I'm in a
jolly mess--"
"Never knew you out of it. What's up?" said Langrish.
"Really though, no larks," said I. "Tempest's down on me because I went
out with Crofter, and Crofter's down on me because I cut him for
Tempest. That's enough to give a chap blues, isn't it?"
"There seems to be a run on Sarah," said Trimble. "Anybody got a
halfpenny?"
"What for?" I inquired, as the requisite coin was planked down on the
table.
"Heads Tempest, tails Crofter," said Langrish.
It was heads, and I was solemnly ordered to adhere to Crofter.
"We'll square it with Tempest," said they. "He'll probably keep his
shutters up for a day or two, but he'll soon get over it."
"But," said I, "I mean to stick to Tempest as well. The fact is, from
what I hear,"--little I realised the fatal error I was making!--"he's in
rather a bad way himself."
"How?"
"Well, don't tell; but he's owing a lot in the shops; and if he can't
pay he'll get shown up."
There was a whistle of dismay at this. Sweeten's fate was still fresh
in the memory of some of the faggery.
"We'll have to give him a leg-up," was the general verdict.
"Oh, don't let out I told you!" said I, beginning to get alarmed at the
interest my revelation had evoked.
"Who's going to say a word about you? We can back up the cock of our
own house, I suppose, without asking your precious leave. You go and
black Crofter's boots. We'll see old Tempest through."
This was not at all what I wanted. I had at least hoped to be
recognised as Tempest's leading champion in this company. Whereas, here
was I coolly shunted, my revelation coolly appropriated, and my services
unceremoniously dispensed with. I did not like it at all.
"This dodge about stringing up Jarman's guy," said Trimble, "ought to
help our man a bit. It'll show we're taking the matter up. By the way,
Sarah's not heard the latest--we're going to blow him up as well as hang
him."
And they proceeded to explain that the guy was to be filled chock-full
of fireworks and gunpowder, and his tongue to be made of touch-paper.
Altogether, he was to be a most dangerous and explosive effigy; and I,
as president of the Philosophical Conversation Club, was naturally
selected to take charge of him.
I pleaded hard for a sub-committee to assist me, but they would not hear
of it.
"It'll only be a day or two," said they, "to the Fifth of November.
We'll have his stuffing all in to-morrow--there's almost enough
fireworks left over from the picnic to load him. Then you can stow him
away quiet somewhere till the day. Couldn't you stick him under your
bed?"
"Oh no, he might go off, you know," said I; "or some one might see him.
Besides, he'll be too stout to go under."
"Bother!--where can he go, then?"
"I vote we stick him in the lumber room under the gymnasium. Nobody
ever goes there, and you can get into it any time by the area outside,"
said Coxhead.
This was voted an excellent idea. At any rate, if he was discovered or
did go off there, the gymnasium was far enough away from Sharpe's.
So, with much rejoicing, the guy was duly loaded with his explosive
internals, and clad in an old derelict overcoat of some late senior. My
famous hat adorned his hideous head, and my unappreciated tan boots lent
distinction to his somewhat incoherent legs. A train of touch-paper
connected with a Roman candle was cunningly devised to protrude in the
form of a tongue from his mouth, while ginger-beer bottles filled with
gunpowder served as hands. And the whole work of art was one dark
evening conveyed by me tenderly and deposited among a wilderness of
broken forms, empty hampers, and old bottles in the lumber room under
the school gymnasium, "to be called for" in a few days time.