"Bah! my punishment! The governor isn't such a duffer as to think that white-faced milksop did that mischief. He hasn't pluck enough. I always told you he was a sneak, and now he's proved it, for he said the thing should always be a secret between us, whether I told or not, and now he's run open-mouthed to you with the tale."
"No, he hasn't." And without another word I walked out of the workshop. I didn't feel as though I wanted to fight Tom; it didn't seem as though I could fight, for I couldn't understand things a bit. Somehow they'd got so mixed up in this row that Tom seemed to be Chandos, and Chandos Tom, and whether I should wake and find they were all right, or Tom running about with Chandos's head on his shoulders, I couldn't tell for a little while.
But presently Chandos came walking through the gate on which I was mounted, and certainly he had his own straw-coloured hair safe enough. He didn't condescend to look at me as he passed, and I felt as though I hated him for robbing me of Tom. What right had he to do it—he with that white face to be so plucky? And not even for a friend either, for Tom is no friend to him any more than I am, and all the school have adopted our private name, and call him Miss Chandos. It isn't as though he didn't care about it either, for I can see he does. No boy likes to be thought a girl, or have a girl's name tacked to him; and Chandos is like the rest, but he takes it quietly, although I fancy now he would be as good in a stand-up fight as Tom himself.
Bother Tom! I don't want to think about him now. I wish he had left the pigs and cows alone, or I hadn't been in such a fume to find out all about it. I don't like to think he has been mean and cowardly—my brave, bold Tom. Anyhow, I shall always hate Miss Chandos for her share in the matter, and I'll call her Miss Chandos more than ever now. It's been a miserable time, somehow, ever since I heard the tops and bottoms of this row, for though Tom and I have never said a word about it since, we both seem to remember it always, and we keep apart as we never did before.
November 20th.—All the school is in a ferment about a special prize that is to be given for the best essay on something or other. I'm not going to try, so it don't trouble me much; but it seems as though everybody else is, and they can talk of nothing else. Even Tom is going in for this, it seems, though he don't stand much chance, I fancy; but he wants a watch, and thinks he may as well try for this. The weather is dull and cold, and our shipbuilding is almost at a standstill. We haven't done much since that row, and things are altogether miserable. Tom seems to be making new friends among the other fellows, and I've dropped shooting at Miss Chandos and hiding her Bible, so that altogether I'm rather glum, and ready to quarrel with anybody that is good for a stand-up fight. I know everybody thinks me a bear, and I am, I think, for I don't care for anybody or anything now.
November 30th.—It seems as though there was never to be an end to this row, which has made everything so miserable for me. The governor has taken it into his head to consider the matter still unsettled, although Chandos took Tom's punishment, and now poor Chandos has been told that he can't try for this prize. It's the meanest shame, for Chandos stood as good a chance as anybody, if not better than most, and now he isn't to be allowed that chance.
He tries to hide his disappointment, but I know he had begun to read up, and yesterday I asked him if he didn't mean to split on Tom, and tell the governor all about it.
"I wish Haslitt would do it himself," he said; "it would be better for everybody if he did."
"Of course it would; and I'll tell him so, and the governor too, if you won't."
"No, no, don't do that, Stewart; the school would send you to Coventry if you split on another fellow about anything. And besides—"