Chapter Twenty.
How Coote comes out as a suspicious character.
It would have been well for Heathcote if he had acted on the impulse of the moment, and made it up with Dick that same evening.
Dick had come back from his boating expedition better disposed towards his lieutenant than he had been for a long time. He had come determined to befriend him, and rescue him from his enemies, and set him up upon his feet. He had come, reproaching himself with his former neglect, and convinced that Georgie’s fate was in his hands for good or evil; and that being so, he had determined to make a good job of his friend and turn him out a credit to Templeton.
But in all this modest programme it had never occurred to him that Georgie would be anything but delighted to be taken in hand and made a good job of.
Therefore, when in the fulness of his benevolence he had found his friend out immediately on his return, and been repulsed for his pains, Dick felt “gravelled.”
All his nice little plan of campaign fell through. It was no use routing the Den, and putting Pledge and the “Sociables” to shame, when Georgie wouldn’t be made a good job of. And so Dick, with some dismay and considerable loss to his self-conceit, had to order a retreat and consider whether the war was worth going on with under the circumstances.
He therefore did not meet Heathcote half-way, and curled himself up into bed, sorely perplexed, sorely crest-fallen, and sorely out of love with the world at large.
No news spreads so fast as the news of a quarrel, and before school was well launched next morning the noise of a “row” between Dick and Heathcote ran through Templeton from end to end.
The Den heard it, and hoped there would be a fight. The “Select Sociables” heard it, and voted it a good job. The Fourth and Fifth heard it, and said, “Young idiots!” The Sixth heard it, and shook their heads.
Pledge, however, regarded the matter with complacency.
“So it’s a row, is it?” said he, as his protégé wandered disconsolately into his study after morning school. “Pistols for two, coffee for four, and all that sort of thing, eh?”
“He cuts me dead,” said Heathcote.
“And you break your heart? Of course you do. I knew you couldn’t get on without him.”
“I don’t break my heart at all!” said Heathcote, savagely.
“No; you look as if you were going to hang yourself! How glad he’ll be to see dear Georgie sorrowing for his sins! If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go out next time you see him and lie down at his feet and ask him kindly to tread upon you.”
“I’m not going to bother about him!” said Heathcote, miserably. “If he wants to make up, he’ll have to come and ask me himself.”
“And, of course, you’ll fall on his neck, and weep, and say, ‘Oh! yes, I loved you always.’ Very pretty! Seriously, youngster—don’t make a donkey of yourself! As long as it pays him to cut you, he will cut you, and when it pays him better to be friends, he’ll want to be friends. Don’t make yourself too cheap. You’re better than a dirty halfpenny, to be played pitch and toss with.”
These words sank deep in the boy’s disturbed mind, and drove away any lingering desire for an immediate reconciliation.
Day after day the two old chums met and cut one another dead, and the spectacle of the “split” became a part of every-day life at Templeton.
At the end of a week fellows almost forgot that David and Jonathan had ever been on speaking terms.
Then an unlooked-for incident caused a diversion and upset the calculations of everybody.
Coote had, of all interested parties, least relished the falling-out of his two old comrades. It had not only pained him as a friend, but, personally, it had caused him the greatest discomfort.
For he found himself in the position of an animated buffer between the two. When Heathcote wanted to show off to Dick that he was not breaking his heart on his account, he got possession of Coote, and lavished untoward affection on that tender youth. And when Dick wanted to exhibit to Heathcote that he was not pining in solitude for want of an adherent, he attached Coote to his person and treated him like his own brother.
And Coote, when Heathcote had him, was all for Heathcote, and eloquent on the abominable sins of piety and inconstancy. And when he was with Dick he was all for Dick, and discoursed no less eloquently on the wickedness of deceit and poorness of spirit. Sometimes his bad memory, and the quick transitions of allegiance through which he was called upon to pass, made him forget his rôle, and condole with Dick on Heathcote’s piety, or with Heathcote on Dick’s poverty of spirit; and sometimes, when, in the company of the one, he happened to meet the other, he quite lost his head and made an ass of himself to both.
This course of double dissimulation at the end of a week began to lose its charms, and Coote, with all his good nature and desire to make things pleasant for everybody, began to get tired of his two friends and long for a breath of freedom.
So he took an early morning stroll along the cliffs one morning, finishing up with Mr Webster’s shop in the High Street.
The gossiping Templeton stationer had suffered somewhat in temper since the reader saw him last, three months ago. The young gentry for whom he catered were not the “apples of his eyes” they had been. Not that he was at open war with them, but he had a grievance.
He didn’t complain of the liberties they sometimes took with his shop—making it a general house of call and discussion forum. That was good for trade, and Mr Webster didn’t object to anything that was good for trade. Nor did the occasional horse-play, and even fighting, that took place on his premises now and then sour his milk of human kindness more than was natural. But when it came to abusing, not himself, but his goods, with the result that a good many of the latter, in the course of a term, came to be damaged, and some, he had reason to suppose, pilfered, then Mr Webster thought it time to make a stand and assert himself. He was, therefore, more brusque and less obsequious to the junior portion of Templeton this term than he had been last.
So, when Coote, in the artlessness of his nature, feigned an earnest desire to know the price of an elegant ormolu inkpot, and modestly inquired it, the tradesman eyed him sharply and replied—
“Ten shillings. Do you want to buy it?”
Coote was one of those individuals who cannot say “no” to a shopman. Though nothing was further from his mind than putting his sadly reduced pocket-money into an ormolu inkpot, his tender heart could not bear to dash the stationer’s hopes too rudely. He said he couldn’t quite make up his mind, and would just look round, if he might.
Mr Webster had got tired of the young Templeton gentlemen “looking round.” He knew what it meant, generally. The springs of all his inkpots got critically tested, pencils got twisted in and out till they refused to twist again, desks got ransacked, and their contents mixed in glorious and hopeless confusion, photographs got thumbed, books got dog-eared; and the sole profit to the honest merchant was the healthy exercise of putting everything tidy after his visitors had left, and the satisfaction of expressing his feelings in language strictly selected from the dictionary.
He was, therefore, by no means elated at Coote’s proposal, and might have vetoed it, had not an important customer, in the shape of the Rev. Mr Westworth, the curate, entered at that moment, and diverted his attention. But even the reverend gentleman’s conversation was unable entirely to engross the honest bookseller, who kept a restless corner of one eye on the boy’s movements, while, with the rest of his features, he smiled deferentially at his customer.
Coote, meanwhile, unaware of the suspicion with which he was being regarded, enjoyed a pleasant five minutes in turning Mr Webster’s stock of writing materials inside out. Being of a susceptible nature, he fell in love with a great many things in the course of his investigations, and the ormolu inkpot was several times eclipsed. What took his fancy most was a pretty chased silver penholder and pencil, which shut up into the compass of a date-stone, and yet, when open, was large and firm enough to write out the whole of Virgil at a sitting.
Whatever else he looked at, he always came back to this treasure; and finally, when he became aware that Mr Westworth was about to depart, he had almost to push it from him, in order to bring himself to the pitch of leaving too.
He had no desire further to lacerate Mr Webster’s feelings by declining to purchase anything, and therefore quitted the shop hurriedly, not noticing, as he did so, that the unlucky little pencil, which he had put down with such affectionate reluctance, had shown its regret by rolling quietly and sadly off the tray on to the counter, till it reached a gap half-way, into which it plunged suicidally, and became lost to the light of day.
Mr Webster, who had seen as little of the catastrophe as the boy had, bowed his reverend guest out, and then turned to the disordered tray with a shrug of his shoulders.
His review of its contents had not lasted half a minute when he started and uttered an exclamation. The pencil was gone—so was Coote!
For once there was no shadow of a doubt in the honest stationer’s mind; it was as clear as daylight. No one else had been in the shop except the curate, who had never been near the tray. Coote had; he had touched and fingered all its contents; he had had this very pencil in his hand, he had quitted the shop abruptly, and started running as soon as he got outside.
Mr Webster did know what two and two made, and it was quite a relief to him to feel absolutely and positively certain he had been robbed by a Templeton boy!
His one difficulty was that he did not remember having seen Coote before, nor did he know his name. However, he would find him, if he had the whole school marched one by one in front of him, and, when he had found him, he would make an example of him.
Blissfully unconscious of the cloud on the horizon, Coote had arrived at the school just in time for chapel. On his way out Heathcote came up and took his arm.
“Well, old fellow,” said that youth in a loud voice, which made it perfectly clear to Coote that Dick must be somewhere within hearing, “come and have another jolly two-hander after school, won’t you? You and I ought to be able to lick Raggles and Culver into fits now, oughtn’t we?”
“It’s a wonder to me,” said Dick, walking off in another direction with Aspinall, “how Raggles and Culver play tennis at all; any fool could lick them left-handed.”
Aspinall knew better than to dispute the assertion, and submitted to be taken down to the courts after morning school by Dick, where, in full view of Heathcote and Coote, the two played an exciting match, in which, of course, Dick came off victorious, for the simple reason that Aspinall had not the moral courage to beat him.
Towards the end of the game Cresswell and Cartwright walked up with their rackets. Finding all the courts occupied, Cresswell said to Dick—
“You two may as well make up a four with Heathcote and Coote; we want one of the courts.”
Dick was delighted to give up the court, but he was far too fagged to play any more. So was Aspinall, wasn’t he? Besides, they neither of them cared about four-handers.
Heathcote and Coote, for their part, were far too absorbed in their game to heed Cresswell’s suggestion. They were playing best out of fifteen sets, Georgie announced, and had just finished the third. Which being known, the spectators fell away from that part of the field rapidly.
The two o’clock bell sounded before the fifth set was over, rather to Coote’s relief, who had been getting just tennis enough during the last week.
The two champions were walking back lovingly to the school, when, as they approached the Quad gate, Heathcote said—
“Hallo! there’s Webster! What’s he hanging about for there?”
“Perhaps you owe him a bill,” said Coote.
“Not I. I’ve jacked Webster up; he’s a surly beast.”
“I was in his shop this morning,” said Coote. “There was such a stunning little shut-up penholder, about so big. I can’t fancy how they make them shut up so small.”
“Did you buy it?”
“No; I couldn’t afford it. Hallo! what does he want? He’s beckoning.”
“Jolly cheek of him!” said Heathcote. “If he wants you, let him come. I wouldn’t go to him if I were you. Call out and ask him what he wants.”
Whereupon Coote called out:—
“What do you want?”
“I want you,” said the bookseller, approaching.
“Tell him you’re busy, and he’d better come again.”
“I’m busy, I say,” cried Coote; “come again.”
“No, thank you,” said Mr Webster, stepping before the boys. “Ah! good day to you, Mr Heathcote; quite a stranger, sir. If you’ll allow me, I would like a word with your friend?”
“You know you’ll get in a row, Webster, if you’re seen up here,” said Heathcote. “All the shop fellows have to stop at the gate.”
Having delivered which piece of friendly caution, Georgie walked on, leaving Coote and the bookseller tête-à-tête.
“What do you want?” asked Coote.
“Come, none of your tricks with me, young fellow! I want that pencil-case, there!”
“Pencil-case! What pencil-case? I’ve not got any pencil-case!” said Coote.
Mr Webster had expected this; he would have been a trifle disappointed had the criminal pleaded guilty at once.
“Do you suppose I didn’t see you with it in your hand in my shop, sir, this morning?” said he.
“But I didn’t take it—I haven’t got it—I wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Coote, beginning to feel very uncomfortable.
“You’d like me to suppose that some one else took it; wouldn’t you?” said Mr Webster, feeling so sure of his ground as quite to enjoy himself.
“If you’ve lost it, somebody else did. I didn’t,” said the boy.
“Now, look here, young gentleman, that sort of thing may go down at home or here in school, but it’s no use trying it on with me. If you don’t choose to give me that pencil this moment, we’ll see what a policeman can do.”
At this threat Coote turned pale. “Really, I never took it! You may feel in my pockets. Oh, please don’t bring a policeman, Mr Webster!”
“What’s your name?” demanded Mr Webster, ostentatiously producing a pencil and paper.
“Coote—Arthur Dennis Coote,” said the trembling boy.
“Address?”
“One, Richmond Villas, Richmond Road, G—.”
“Very well, Mr Coote,” said the stationer, folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket-book; “unless you call on me before this time to-morrow with the pencil, I’ll have you locked up. Good morning.”
Coote, with his heart in his shoes, watched the retreating figure till it was lost to view, and then turned, bewildered and scared, to the school.
Heathcote was waiting for him at the door.
“Well, what did the cad want?—what’s the row, I say?” he demanded, catching sight of the dazed face of his chum.
“Oh, Georgie, a most frightful row!” gasped Coote. “He says I’ve stolen a pencil!”
“What, the one you were talking about?”
“Yes, the very one.”
“I suppose you haven’t, really?” asked Heathcote, with no false delicacy.
“No, really I haven’t—that is, if I have I— Look here; do hunt my pockets, will you, old man?”
Georgie obeyed, and every pocket of the unhappy Coote was successively explored, without bringing to light the missing pencil.
“There,” said the suspect, with a sigh of relief when the operation was over, “I was positive I hadn’t got it. He says I was the only one in the shop, and that he missed it as soon as I had gone; but really and truly I didn’t take it; I never did such a thing in my life.”
“Of course you didn’t. He’s a cad and has got a spite against us, that’s what it is. What’s he going to do?”
“He says unless I take it to him by this time to-morrow, he’ll send a policeman to take me up,” and the unhappy youth’s voice choked with the words.
Heathcote gave a long, dismal whistle.
“Whatever will you do?” he asked, in tones of deep concern.
“How can I take it back?” asked Coote, “if I hadn’t got it. I wish to goodness I had got it!”
“You’ll have to square him, somehow,” said Georgie. “You’re positive it hasn’t dropped into your shoes, or anywhere, by accident.”
The bare suggestion sent Coote up to the dormitory, where he undressed, and shook out each article of his toilet, in the hope of discovering the lost treasure.
Alas! high or low, there was no sign of it.
He spent a terrible afternoon, wondering where he should be that time to-morrow, or whether possibly Mr Webster would alter his mind, and send a policeman up forthwith.
He was in no humour for tennis, or a row in the Den, or a “Sociable” concert after school, and avoided them all. And to add to his troubles, Heathcote was detained two hours for some offence; so that he was deprived for an equal length of time of the consolation of that hero’s sympathy and advice.
He spent the interval dismally in a retired corner of the field, where he hoped to be able to collect his shattered wits in peace. But it was no good. He could see no way through it.
“Oh!” thought he, for the hundredth time, “how I wish I had really taken it!”
He had just arrived at this conclusion, when a light step approaching, caused him to look up, and see Dick.
“Hullo, old man,” said the latter, “how jolly blue you look. What’s the row?”
Coote repeated his dismal story, and marked the dismay which crept over his leader’s face as he told it.
“By Jove, old man,” said Dick, “it’s a mess. How ever are you to get out?”
“That’s just what I don’t know,” groaned Coote. “If I only had the pencil it would be all right. But, really and truly, Dick, I never took it; did I?”
“All serene,” said Dick. “But, I say, if you can’t give him the pencil back, perhaps you can pay him for it.”
“It cost thirty shillings; and I’ve only got seven-and-six.”
“I’ve got ten shillings,” said Dick. “That’s seventeen-and-six. Perhaps if we gave him that, he’d wait for the rest.”
“You’re an awful brick,” said poor Coote, gratefully. “If it hadn’t been for you and Georgie, I don’t know what I should have done.”
Dick started and coloured.
“Is he in it? Does he know about it?” he asked.
“Yes, Dick,” said Coote, feeling rather in a hobble. “I—thought, you know, I’d better tell him.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, not much; that is, he said he’d help me if he could. But—I don’t see how he can.”
“He might be able to lend you enough to make up the price,” said Dick, after a pause.
“I know he would, he’s such a brick—that is,” added the wretched Coote, correcting himself, “you’re both such bricks.”
Dick made no answer, but walked off, musing to himself.
“Both bricks!” And yet poor Coote had to blush when he mentioned the name of one brick to the other! Dick was getting tired of this.
He retired to the school, to think over what could be done, and was about to ascend the stairs, when the familiar form of Georgie appeared coming to meet him.
“Georgie, Coote’s in an awful mess; I vote we back him up.”
“So do I, rather, old man.”
And they went off arm-in-arm to find him.
Check to you, Pledge!