Mr. Huntley drew in his lips. “For another’s sake I am sorry to hear it. But I can only express my hope that he will do his duty.”
“I have just been telling him so,” observed the master.
“What brings me here, is this, sir,” continued Mr. Huntley to the master. “Knowing there was a doubt, as to which of the three senior boys would be chosen, I wished, should it prove to be my son, to speak a word about the Oxford exhibition, which, I believe, generally accompanies the seniorship. It falls due next Easter.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Pye.
“Then allow me to decline it for my son,” replied Mr. Huntley. “He will not need it; and therefore should not stand in the light of any other boy. I deemed it well, sir, to state this at once.”
“Thank you,” warmly responded the head-master. He knew that it was an unselfish, not to say generous, act.
Mr. Huntley approached Tom Channing. He took his hand; he shook it heartily, with every mark of affection and respect. “You must not allow this exaltation of Harry to lessen the friendship you and he entertain for each other,” he said, in tones that reached every pair of ears present—and not one but was turned up to listen. “You are more deserving of the place than he, and I am deeply sorry for the circumstances which have caused him to supplant you. Never mind, Tom; bear on bravely, lad, and you’ll outlive vexation. Continue to be worthy of your noble father; continue to be my son’s friend; there is no boy living whom I would so soon he took pattern by, as by you.”
The hot tears rushed into Tom’s eyes, and his lip quivered. But that he remembered where he was, he might have lost his self-control. “Thank you, sir,” he answered, in a low tone.
“Whew!” whistled Tod Yorke, as they were going out. “A fine friend he is! A thief’s brother.”
“A thief’s brother! A thief’s brother!” was the echo.