“I haven't been quite so sage as I might have been, and, perhaps, jokes may not be quite gentlemanly—but,—but, Hamilton,—he thinks,—he thinks—and almost said it—that I changed your poem.”
“What a shame!” they cried.
Frank stooped to pick up the penny, and was some minutes finding it. When he rose, he said:
“One will grow old in time, but it's hard to pay so dearly for good spirits. However, you couldn't expect such a flow cheap, I suppose,” he added, with a little laugh.
“You must have mistaken him,” said Trevannion; “he couldn't have meant it.”
“I am not in the habit of taking offence at nothing,” replied Frank. “Nay, I can be as purposely obtuse as any one when I choose, but one couldn't be blind.”
“What did he say?” said Reginald.
“I don't exactly remember—a heap about ‘pain inflicted,’ of ‘misconstructions being placed on motives,’ of ‘transgressions against honor and kindliness;’ and then, when I was at a loss to comprehend him, he said, ‘he could not understand the gratification of seeing another disappointed and annoyed—when he discovered that his school-fellow, whom he confidently trusted, had substituted a blank sheet for a carefully, laboriously-written work;’ and then I asked him if he supposed I had tricked Hamilton? and he said he couldn't think of another who was so likely to do it as myself—that ‘the constant indulgence in these senseless follies was likely to blunt the sense of honor,’ ‘that I must excuse him’—excuse him, forsooth—‘if he spoke his mind on the subject;’ and then he raked up an old affair, that happened ages ago, about an exercise—Salisbury, you remember—you were the victim; but that was a paltry, every-day affair, only he didn't seem to understand the difference. I'll back the doctor up for as good a memory as any man in the three kingdoms. I had forgotten that piece of moral turpitude, and might have been excused for imagining that the caning I got then had wiped out the offence. Hamilton,” he added, with a faltering voice, laying his hand on Hamilton's shoulder—“you don't believe I did it?”
“To be sure not, Frank,” said Hamilton, heartily shaking Frank's hand. “I know you too well—I am as confident of you as I should be of myself in the same case. Don't think any more of it. I am sure the doctor doesn't believe it himself: he only wants to show what might be thought if you get a character for playing tricks. I am excessively vexed at this.”
“I don't feel at all certain he believes me yet,” said Frank; “but this I declare, that unless your poem is found, I will withdraw all claim—I won't touch the prize for any consideration.”