“Anyhow, he’ll find out about it soon enough,” thought the miserable lad. “Sterndale will come round and give the whole thing away.”
But the evening passed on and Sterndale did not appear. In his room, after darkness had fallen, Don tried to read; but he found Henty dull, Optic tame, Alger insipid, and not even that master of all writers for youth, Trowbridge, could hold his attention and chain his restless mind.
At last he heard a sound that caused him to start up. It was a soft, peculiar whistle beneath his window, and he knew Bentley had arrived.
For some moments Don stood irresolute, then, as the whistle was repeated, he slipped down the back stairs and admitted Leon to the house.
“Well,” said the visitor, bringing out cigarettes the moment they were in Don’s room and the door was closed, “you’re dead lucky, old man, and don’t you forget it.”
“Lucky?” sneered the doctor’s son, derisively. “Well, I’d like to know how! I think I’m just about the unluckiest fellow on the face of the earth.”
“I don’t suppose you know anything about it,” said Leon, having struck a match and lighted a cigarette, “but Sterndale’s wilted.”
“Wilted? In what way?”
“He’s backed down; he ain’t going to tackle your old man to make him pay for the football and suits.”
“How do you know?” gasped Don, in astonishment.