"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.