“Wife and kids” answered Macfarlane, smoking thoughtfully.
“The Scot has it,” said Oxley. “Tommy doesn't care one straw for himself, but he wanted, I take it, to keep that dear little wife of his comfortable and get a good education for his boys, and so he got deeper and deeper, trying to retrieve himself for their sakes. Mind you, I don't defend him, but that was his excuse; and now Tommy has gone under.”
“Not if I can help it, boys,” and Beazley's face flushed. “And I say, here are three of us: why shouldn't we join and—and—tighten the rope and haul Tommy on his feet again?” Macfarlane took the briar root out of his mouth and regarded Freddie with admiration.
“We were all in the same house, and Tommy likes us, and we could do... that sort of thing when he wouldn't take it from others; and I say, it would be a jolly decent thing to do.”
“You're all right, Freddie,”—Oxley was evidently pleased,—“and we're with you” (“shoulder to shoulder,” said Macfarlane, lighting his pipe with ostentatious care). “Now the first step is to let Tommy know that we have not turned our backs on him: my idea is that if he knows we three are going to stand by him he'll not throw up the sponge.”
“Look here,” cried Beazley, “I'll go round this minute, and I'll beg his pardon for what I said, and I'll tell him that we haven't forgotten the old days among the hills, and that we know he's a white man, and... in fact he'll take the cup yet.”
“That will help mightily; and now let us make up our plans,” said Oxley.
And that was how three men joined in a conspiracy for the business and social and personal salvation of Thomas Hatchard.
II
“How late you are, Tom—eight o'clock—and how tired you look, poor fellow! I've been thinking about you all day. Was it very trying this morning, or were they nice? They ought to have been, for everybody must know that it wasn't your fault.”