Finch had spent the summer at Deal, so perhaps there was little reason for him to become enthusiastic over a prospect of beauty of which he had had so many opportunities for growing weary. As he looked back on the spring term, he hardly knew how he had got through it. He lived during its last six weeks more than ever in his shell, studying desperately to pass his examinations. And in that he had succeeded.
After Deering’s departure and his own exposure before Wilson, he avoided every one, even Lawrence and Mr. Morris. And save on two or three occasions, after a more bitter jibe than usual in the classroom when he revenged himself on Mr. Roylston, he gave up his secret vandalism. During the summer he stayed on at Deal. The time had gone pleasantly enough, and had he been able to recoup his health, he might have been restored to an equable frame of mind, but unfortunately he was physically as miserable as ever.
By the middle of August he began to worry about the possibility of Deering not coming back. After a letter or so, which characteristically he had left unanswered, he heard nothing from Tony. In August he heard, however, from Doctor Forester, who was spending a week-end with the Lawrences at Easthampfield. “You will be interested to learn,” he had written, “that your friend Anthony Deering is here with James, and that there is now no longer any doubt of his returning to school in September. I look forward to great things from him as leader of the school.” From that time on Finch lived from day to day on the expectation of Tony’s return. He was thrilled by the implied statement of the Head Master’s letter that Tony would be appointed Head Prefect, though he could not imagine that any other boy had for a moment been seriously considered. Several times the first day of the term when he had heard the boys discussing the probability of Tony’s return and appointment, he smiled to himself with secret glee and a strange feeling of self-importance at his inside information. But he said nothing. It pleased him though that almost all of the boys seemed to take it for granted.
At last, on that lovely September afternoon as Jake lay under the bushes on the Old School terrace, he was rewarded for his long vigil. In one of the last of the many carriages that drove up, he saw Lawrence and Deering. The rays of the setting sun were shining on the top of Tony’s bare copper-colored head and made it glow like burnished gold. To Jake’s adoring eyes it was as the halo about the head of a patron saint. He watched the two boys clamber out of their hack, pay the driver, and join a merry crowd of fellows who were unofficially welcoming late arrivals. “Hello Tony!” “Hello Jim!” “Well, I’m mighty glad to see you!” With such cries he heard fresh young voices ring; and with bright eyes, he followed his hero as he entered the doors of the Old School in the midst of a happy crowd of his classmates. Through the window, to which he crept, he saw the cordial greeting that Tony and Jimmie got from the Doctor and Mrs. Forester. A moment later Finch saw Kit Wilson enter, and heartily greet every one except Tony. He sent a glance of vindictive hatred toward Wilson that it was well for him Kit did not see.
About half-an-hour after supper Jake tapped timidly at the door of Number Five study. In response there came a hearty “Come in.”
“Why, hello, Finch,” cried Tony, grasping his visitor’s hand with a strong grip, “I declare, you’re getting fat.”
Finch laughed ruefully. “Not very, I guess.”
“Well, old chap, how have you been? Why the deuce haven’t you ever written to me?”
“I dunno; I’m no hand at writing, I guess. I was glad to hear from you though.”
“How goes it? Where have you been all summer?”