"Kid, what splendid news you've brought me! Cayton is coming back to school by the midday train, and wants me to meet him. We've just time to celebrate it. Come and have a lemonade or something."
The "something" spread itself out into quite a classy midday feed for Robin, who, having done himself proud at the smiling captain's expense, hurried back to school to scatter envy among his less fortunate comrades. It was then time for the train, which brought with it a paler but much-happier-looking Roger than the anxious prefect who left Foxenby in December.
"Why, Roger, old boy," said Dick, when they had treated themselves to a very fervent handshake, "I expected to see you a limping crock, looking justifiably sorry for yourself, yet you're laughing all across your face and half-way down your back. Does being feverishly ill buck a chap up so much as all that?"
"Dear old Dick, I meant to keep it dark till we were locked in our study to-night, but I simply can't hold it in. It's ripping tidings I've got for you—top-hole!"
"Judging by your beaming countenance, it must be."
"Laddie, it's great! I'm no longer a 'deadhead', financially speaking, in the Rooke's House Rag partnership. I can go shares in the cost, whatever it is. I've made money—I'm a professional author!"
"No, never! Get away with your nonsense, Roger!"
"It's sober truth, old Doubting Thomas. I've a savings-bank book in my pocket, showing that twenty guineas is standing to my credit. And every penny of that was made by writing—I've the proofs of the series of sketches in my pocket, and you and I are going to correct them together to-night!"
He had an enraptured and admiring auditor in Dick as he explained how, determined to do his bit towards making good the loss of the Rag's subscription-money, he had conceived the idea of writing a dialect sketch descriptive of the quaint customs and mannerisms of his own village. By great good fortune the simple humour of it had caught the fancy of the first editor to whom he offered it. "Send me eleven more brief sketches in the same vein," wrote the editor, "and I'll pay you twenty guineas for the dozen."
It was, Roger admitted, a staggering commission, and ultimately it overweighted him. What with tramping about in search of "local colour" in the daytime, and then sitting up secretly at nights in order to transfer his thoughts to paper, he broke down, and only just finished the job in time—indeed, he had no recollection of actually posting the series, and was only certain he had done so when, a few days before returning to school, he had received the promised cheque in payment.