Dick felt rather foolish. "But you said it was a business transaction," he replied, defensively. "I'm most awfully sorry if I've unwittingly hurt your feelings—do please forgive me for being such a clown. I—I only thought it would be rather nice to make you a little friendly acknowledgment of your great kindness."
"Well, you've put it on the wrong footing, youngster, that's all. 'Business transaction' was my camouflage for it. Just a loan to oblige a pal—which it did, thank goodness, in putting you top-side of Aaron Mawdster yesterday. There, now, take no notice of my bluster—I'm only kidding. Take back your fiver and give me instead a little souvenir of the occasion—one I rather fancy."
"Whatever it is, it's yours, Smithies," Dick eagerly agreed.
"A photograph of yourself in football togs—this size—to fit into my portfolio of sporting cracks."
"The honour's mine there," said Dick. He bethought himself of Robin Arkness's autograph-book, and smiled. "You're putting me early into the gallery of Fame! I hate being photographed, Smithies, but you shall have the picture. Mr. Rooke will take it—he's a wizard with a camera."
"That'll suit me down to the ground, sonny. It'll be a nice memento to put beside a photograph of the football cup, which you're sure to win next time.
"For," added the bookmaker inwardly, as Dick left the office, "I'm taking no bets on that replay from Ike Doccan's dirty paw. If he wasn't acting for a few schoolboys who meant Foxenby no good, I'll eat my go-to-meeting suit of clothes."
Dick had swung happily half-way back to school when he observed Robin Arkness running towards him breathlessly. The Junior waved at him an orange-coloured envelope.
"A telegram for you, Forge," he announced. "I saw you come down here, so I risked bringing it along."
"Jolly decent of you, youngster—thanks," said Dick, trying to behave as though telegrams were an everyday event with him, though his pulse was rapid as he opened the envelope and read its contents.