"Boys here in this school are religious!" I said. "Of course, I know you are, but—"
"You thought I was the only one, Stewart? Well, now, I'm glad to say when I came here I found one or two trying to solve the problem you think so improbable—how a schoolboy can serve God; and though it may be difficult sometimes—I grant you that, for temptation to do wrong even in fun must be resisted; and then lessons must be learned fairly, not shirked, and no cribs must be used, or else where is our honesty? But still, if a boy once starts to keep on the square all round, things are not so hard as you might think. But I must not stop any longer now, Stewart; I will come in and have another chat by-and-by. But—but you will not forget to pray for poor Frank?"
Forget! Sometimes I wish I could forget that dreadful day and everything that happened then. It isn't often, I suppose, that such dreadful things happen through a little fun, or else it would help Chandos's argument about the happiness of not doing wrong even in fun, for this has made me miserable enough. I wish I could be the sort of fellow Chandos talked about. It's different altogether from what I thought, and to be fair and square and honest right through in lessons and everything else has nothing of the sneak about it. But I have promised I'd pray for Frank, and I mean to do it. How am I to begin? Will God hear me? I'm not good like Chandos. He saw me shooting the pellets at him from under the bedclothes only a little while ago, I suppose, and won't He think I'm mocking Chandos now if I kneel down as he did? What was it that he said, though, about the Lord Jesus being a boy once? Well, if He was He'll know all about me, and after all it's poor Frank I want Him to help. I wouldn't venture to ask Him to help me yet; I want nothing now so much as for Frank to get well.
After thinking like this for some time I locked the door, for fear anybody should come in and see me, and then I kneeled down; but I don't know what I said, only that it was about Frank and his getting well, and that I'd try and do the square thing, and be honest and upright and pure right through, if God would only make him well again.
CHAPTER V.
CRIBS.
February 10th.—I am in the schoolroom again, and poor Frank Chandos is getting better. He is to go away as soon as he can be moved, but he is too weak even to sit up in bed yet. I went to see him yesterday, and Chandos told him I had prayed that God would make him well again. He turned his white face round, and looked at me with his big, dark eyes, and said, "Thank you, Stewart."
"Oh, don't do that! I didn't mean to do any harm, you know, but I led you into the mischief, and I've been sorry enough ever since; and I hope you'll forgive me, Chandos," I said.
But I felt almost frightened when he put out his hand and slipped it into mine—such a thin, white hand it was, with fingers for all the world like claws. I suppose the doctors know best, but I should have thought he was dying if Mrs. Chandos had not told me he was looking better.
Chandos seems to expect that I'm going in for plenty of grind, and all that sort of thing. Well, it's only fair, for I couldn't think of asking God to help me out of a scrape, and then forgetting all about it as soon as it's over; though what a schoolboy can pray about when things are all right I don't know. Of course, I haven't done with Frank yet, for I don't feel so sure about his getting well as the others do. He looks awfully thin and white, and if God was just to leave off making him well for a day or two he'd be as bad as ever, I expect.