Raffles lurched off with a savage leer, and Jack staggered back to St. Amory's.
Jack's life was a burden to him for the next few hours, his head nearly split with the hatching of impossible plans with loopholes to escape the weasel on his track, but the end was as Acton had foreseen. Acton got a note through Grim.
"Dear Acton,
"Could you give me ten minutes in your study to-night?—Yours,
"J. Bourne."
"Dear Bourne,
"Twenty, if you like.—Yours,
"J. Acton."
Jack went, and when Acton put him into the easy-chair and noticed his white, fagged face, he felt genuinely sorry for him.
"You look seedy, young 'un."
"I hope I don't look as seedy as I feel, that's all."
"What's the matter?"
Jack boggled over what he'd come to say, but finally blurted out: "Acton, would you lend me seven pounds? I'm in a hole, the deuce of a hole; in fact, I'm pretty well hopelessly stumped. I'll tell you why if you ask me, but I hope you won't. I've been an ass, but I've collared some awful luck, and I'm not quite the black sheep I seem. I don't want to ask Phil—in fact, I couldn't, simply couldn't ask him for this. I'll pay you back beginning of next term if I can raise as much, and if not, as much as I can then, and the rest later."
"Oh, you're straight enough, young 'un, and I'll lend you the money," said Acton.