“Medlicott stays there?”
“Yes. He says if little Armine is any way fit, he must move him away to-morrow at all risks from the night-cold up there, and he wants Reeves to see about men to carry him, that is if—if to-night does not—”
Cecil could not finish.
“Then it is as bad as we heard?”
“Quite,” said Cecil, “or worse. That dear little chap, just fancy!” and his eyes filled with tears. “He tried to thank me for having been good to him—as if I had.”
“He was your fag?”
“Yes; Skipjack asked me to choose him because he’s that sort of little fellow that won’t give into anything that goes against his conscience, and if one of those fellows had him that say lower boys have no business with consciences, he might be licked within an inch of his life and he’d never give in. He did let himself be put under a pump once at some beastly hole in the country, for not choosing to use bad language, and he has never been so strong since.”
“Mother would be glad that at least you allowed him the use of his conscience.”
“I’m glad I did now,” said Cecil, with a sigh, “though it was a great nuisance sometimes.”
“Was the Monk, as you call him, one of that set?”