“Oh, I don’t know—not after the row you had with him about me. They all like you too much, except Wilson, to give you a chance to get sore again. They don’t think me worth bothering about.”
“Well, even so—you have given some cause for that attitude now. But I tell you what, I want to get right with Kit again. Not, old chap, at the price of throwing you over—don’t think that!—but, on the other hand, I don’t want to make keeping on good terms with you the price of Kit’s friendship. There isn’t need. And can’t you see that I cannot be the one to tell Kit the—to tell Kit about you?”
Finch did not see, but he kept silent. He appreciated neither Tony’s deep feeling for his friend nor Tony’s delicate consideration for him. He was thinking dolefully of just how miserable and unfortunate and unlovable he was. Yet, with all the ardor of his intense famished little soul, he clung to Deering’s patient tolerance, and mutely resolved to give him no chance of “flinging him off.” But as for going to Kit with the truth, that was an act of which he was incapable, an act of which he was even incapable of perceiving the point.
“I’m just worthless, Deering,” he said at last miserably, “I’ll be thankful when it’s all over.”
“Now, cut that out, Jake. Get out and play with somebody. Don’t mope round all the time; and come in often and see us. Jimmie is glad to have you.”
“Thanks,” said Finch. He longed to open again the conversation about the Head Prefectship, and learn from Tony what he really felt about that, but with dull shame for his baseness, he did not dare. And as for Tony that was a subject that he felt he never could discuss with Finch again.
Time drifted on. Finch continued to worship Deering, but he avoided him more than he had done before, and lived his own lonely, unhappy life, as many a boy had done before him at school, with all that young world around him, gay, spirited, uncaring. Morris cared, but to his advances Finch proved adamant. As the term advanced, in the inevitable distraction to other interests and pleasures, it was only natural that the attention Tony had concentrated on Finch at the opening of the term, should have slacked. After a time, growing used to seeing less of him, even Tony began to feel that Finch was getting on well enough, and ceased for the most part to worry about him.
Finch had not forgotten his grudge against Mr. Roylston, but rather nursed it with the tenacity of such a nature, and took a gloomy pleasure in planning from time to time impossible schemes of revenge. For a long time Deering’s tranquillity with regard to the Head Prefectship disarmed Jacob. It was hard to resent for your hero what he himself did not resent. But he nursed his grudge.
It happened along in January that the prefects had occasion to deal with some disciplinary irregularities. Being governed by Clavering’s advice, they frankly mismanaged the case and involved two or three boys in a somewhat unfair predicament. Clavering, realizing that his judgment had been at fault, appealed to Deering, who had the good luck to make a suggestion that speedily set matters straight and saved the school from rather a mess. The boys talked over the affair quite generally, and as often happens, they criticised Clavering somewhat sharply, spoke indeed more harshly, most of them, than they really felt. Finch overheard a discussion of the incident in the common-rooms which was concluded by Teddy Lansing affirming rather loudly and tactlessly, “Well, it was a rotten roast when Deering did not get the Head Prefectship in the first place. Clavering is a blundering old cow.”
“That it was—a rotten roast!” came in a sharp staccato from a near-by corner. Finch had spoken, impulsively, and quite unusually drawing attention to himself.