"Emphatically, no. If anybody in Holbeck's House has a grievance against its prefect, he can report it to Mr. Holbeck. There is a further Court of Appeal—to the Headmaster himself."
"Well put, Roger, K.C.! You have freed my mind. I want nothing more on it than is already there, I can assure you."
He was about to tell Roger what Harwood had said about ceasing the publication of the Rag, but a second thought stopped his tongue. He did not himself question the sincerity of Harwood's suggestion, but he felt instinctively that Roger would. He feared that Roger, always prejudiced against The Foxonian's editor, would say that the wish was father to the thought—that the early death of The Rooke's House Rag, leaving The Foxonian once more alone in the field, would just suit Harwood's book. So he changed the subject for another.
"I've got my exeat, Roger, and shall cycle to Moston to see the Fairtype Press manager this afternoon."
"Good luck!" said Roger. "Hope he'll be decent about it."
Head scholar of Rooke's House though he was, neck-and-neck rival of Luke Harwood in the race for the Christmas prizes, Roger made mistakes that afternoon which caused amused astonishment in class. Work could not hold him. His thoughts were elsewhere. Heart and mind he was with Dick Forge in the Moston printing-office, wherein much that affected their reputation at Foxenby was in the balance to-day.
What if that fair-spoken printing manager declined to wait for his money, or, worse still, refused to print off another number of the Rag? Luke Harwood had already announced a "special term-end number" of The Foxonian—how humiliating it would be if no Rag appeared as a counter-blast to it!
Yet, if such a downfall threatened them, Roger was powerless to avert it. His people were in poor circumstances; only by dint of winning scholarships could Roger keep himself at Foxenby. The small burden of his scanty savings had been lifted from him by the burglars, and Dick had been relieved of far more. No wonder Roger had no appetite for tea that night! His eyes were pools of troubled light as he raised them to greet Dick on the latter's return.
"Come, dear old fiddle-face, cheer up!" laughed Dick. "All's well!"
"Dick, I can see the good news oozing out of you. Bravo—you've worked the oracle!"