Baldry became thoughtful. He ran through the list of his acquaintances whom he thought most deserving of the honour that Plunger proposed to bestow on him. He thought of one or two in his form who might have been available for his purpose, but it was just possible that they were in the confidence of Plunger. So he turned from his own form to the Fifth—"the bounders of the Fifth."
"I've got it," he suddenly exclaimed. "Percival!"
"Percival!" echoed Harry.
"Yes; that's the ticket; the very thing—Percival. If it comes off all right, it'll be a big hit. We shall be covered with glory, and he'll be covered with feathers—ha, ha! It couldn't be better. Do you see how it fits in? A nice little present of feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather at the sand-pit. Isn't it splendid, Moncrief?"
Harry was silent. Percival had been far from his thoughts. He never imagined that Baldry would suggest Percival. For the moment his mind went back to that night when Paul came to Redmead. Once again he could hear the low, earnest tones of his father—"Many thanks for the great service you have done, Paul. You have not only done a great service for me and my brother, but for your country."
"Well, Moncrief; why don't you answer?" came the voice of Baldry. "It's the finest idea that has come to me for a long time. Feathers for the fellow who showed the white feather."
At the words, the image of his father faded from Harry's mind. He could no longer hear the echo of his words. He only saw his cousin's bleeding face as he rose vanquished from the sand-pit; and, side by side with that picture, he saw Percival walking and talking, and shaking hands with "the wretched Beetle—Wyndham," as he had seen him walking and talking and shaking hands with him that afternoon.
"A fine idea—splendid!" he cried. "Nothing could be better. Let Percival be the victim."