PAUL WRITES A LETTER
Stanley's head had fallen to his breast as Leveson read that bitter paragraph from the Record. He looked up quickly as Paul entered the room. For the moment it seemed as though he would speak; then he bit his lips fiercely to keep back the words that sprang to them, and went from the room. Newall followed him, then Arbery. One by one they followed his example—Third Form boys as well as Fifth—until one only remained—Waterman, who had been comfortably resting in a chair by the fire throughout the scene described in the last chapter. As the last boy went out, he glanced up.
"Hallo, Percival! Is that you?"
"Why don't you do the same as the rest of the fellows, and clear out?" asked Paul bitterly.
"I'm quite comfortable where I am, thank you."
And Waterman stretched out his legs, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. Paul could see that it was not altogether a question of comfort with Waterman. His laziness was only a cloak to disguise a real feeling of friendship towards him.
"The fellows were discussing me as I came in?"
"I don't quite know what they were discussing. Oh, young Plunger had made himself an ass, as usual, over some paragraph in the Record. That was it."
Leveson had screwed up the paper, it will be remembered, when he had read the paragraph about the honour of the Fifth, and, as Paul entered, had flung it contemptuously from him into a corner of the room. Paul's eye went to it as Waterman was speaking.
"Paragraph in the Record," he repeated, as he smoothed it out. "What have they got to say about Plunger?"
He quickly read the paragraphs which had reference to Plunger, and then he read the one which he knew well enough had reference to himself. Waterman rose from his chair as the paper dropped from Paul's hand and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're cut up, Percival. I wouldn't let that paragraph worry me. It's really not worth it. There's nothing in the world worth worrying about—there really isn't."
"You don't mean what you say, Waterman—though it's kind of you to say it. Honour's worth troubling about—one's own honour; the honour of one's form; the honour of one's school; and I know that, disguise it as you may, you're just as keen on it as any in the school. And all the fellows believe that I've dragged it through the mud."
"Oh, well, things will clear up some day, Percival; then you'll come into your own," said Waterman cheerfully.
"Some day I suppose they will; but it may be a long time first, and there's no game so hard to play as the waiting game."
"That's where you're wrong, Percival. There's no game in the world like it—the waiting game, I mean. There's no fag about it, and that's what I like. Just wait your time, you know—take it easy—no flurry—go as you please. It's the game of all games for my ha'pence. It really is, Percival. So don't worry, old fellow—and don't flurry."
Paul could not help smiling to himself at Waterman's easy view of things, but the smile quickly disappeared when he was once more alone. Waterman had talked about "things clearing up," and "coming into his own"; but would things ever clear up? Would he ever win back the honour of the Form, and the confidence of those who belonged to it? Saddest of all was the memory that Stanley, who had been his greatest friend, now appeared to be his greatest enemy.
Suddenly it occurred to him—he would write to Mr. Walter Moncrief, and tell him what had happened that night when he went to Dormitory X. The idea had occurred to him before, but he had put it off in the hope that he might have surer evidence to go upon. No further evidence had been forthcoming, but delay might be dangerous; so he determined to write.
So he went into the writing-room, and wrote to Mr. Moncrief, telling him exactly what had happened on the night he went to Dormitory X.
"I am pretty well certain," he went on, "that the man I saw with Mr. Weevil is one of the men who came after me on the night I came to your house at Redmead—the chief of the two. It was night-time, but I had a fairly good view of his face. What he has to do with Mr. Weevil, I can't make out. I should be sorry to think that Mr. Weevil has anything to do with a traitor to his country; but there must be something at the bottom of it all. What that something is, you may be able to find out better than I can. Dr. Colville, our Head, is away, so I cannot go to him. What ought to be done? Will you let me know what you think?"
Having written this letter, Paul felt more comfortable. So soon as he heard from Mr. Moncrief, his lips would be unsealed, and he might take steps to clear his own honour. He would then be able to explain to his Form—to all the school if need be—what had prevented him from confronting Wyndham at the sand-pit.
But having finished his letter, there was one great difficulty in the way. All letters written in the school were supposed to pass, first of all, through the hands of the master. How could he let that letter pass through the hands of Mr. Weevil? As he was thinking over this dilemma, Hibbert entered the room, and told him that Mr. Travers wished to speak to him. Mr. Travers was master of the Fifth.
Paul rose to his feet, and thrust the letter in his pocket, wondering what Mr. Travers could want with him. Then it occurred to him that Hibbert was just the boy he wanted; he could trust Hibbert with anything. Hibbert would post the letter for him.
"Hibbert, I want you to do me a great favour," he said, drawing the letter from his pocket. "I want you to post this letter for me. There's nothing wrong in it, I give you my word of honour; but, I don't want Mr. Weevil to know. That's why I am not sending it through the school post."
Hibbert expressed his willingness to post it, and Paul handed him the letter, then went to Mr. Travers' room. Hibbert hastened off with the letter, but, as ill-luck would have it, he ran full tilt against Mr. Weevil, just as he reached the outer door. In doing so, he stumbled, and would have fallen to the ground had not the master caught him by the arm.
