From that day until the morning of his return to Foxenby, Dick kept his mouth shut about his difficulties at school. Twice Aunt Bella pressed him for particulars of the burglary, and each time he laughed the matter off. She must never know how greatly the pocket-money she could no longer send would be missed. Clearly, he could never take a farthing from her again, and it mortified him to be unable to volunteer the return of at least some of the cash with which, from his babyhood upwards, she had always so lavishly supplied him.
In his widowed stepmother it was impossible to confide. She just did endure his presence in the house at holiday times, and that was all. She had no use for "a hobble-de-hoy stepson", she had been heard to say, and quite frankly grudged him what, under his father's will, she was compelled to pay for his education.
In these cheerless circumstances Dick decided to return to school a day before the other fellows did, and to make a hole in his scanty allowance by putting up for one night at the village inn. Thus, he would be enabled to see the publisher of the Rag and explain things. Practically it amounted to throwing himself on the printing-manager's mercy, much as his pride revolted against that course.
At Peterborough everybody alighted from the East Coast express save one man, a heavily-built individual with a square jaw and glittering black eyes. He was dressed in tweeds of a "horsey" pattern, and the moment the train re-started he thrust into Dick's arms a sheaf of coloured sporting papers.
"Good biz!" he wheezed. "Now that those over-fried old pelicans have buzzed off, we can breathe. Open that window, sonny! You and I can suck in some winter ozone without needing a bronchitis-kettle, what?"
Disinclined for conversation, wanting to be alone with his thoughts, yet incapable of being surly with anyone, Dick acknowledged the loan of the papers and turned the leaves disinterestedly.
"Not much in your line, sonny, eh? Well, chuck 'em into the rack—the porter'll simply eat 'em. Can't size up them letters on your cap. What's your school? Foxenby! Why, that's the team which drew with St. Cuthbert's in the final. Shan't forget that match in a hurry. Lost a hundred pounds on it!"
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dick, surprised into a show of interest. "Did you have your pockets picked?"
"Not so very much, youngster. I'd like to see the crook that could pick my pocket and live. When I say that I lost a hundred pounds, I mean that I stood to win that sum if Foxenby had scored. Everybody in Walsbridge had a bit on with me—and they backed St. Cuthbert's to a man. Consequence was, when that dotty waxwork of a mascot chipped in and spoilt the Foxenby centre-forward's goal, I lost a little fortune as clean as a whistle."
Dick stared at the bookmaker in unconcealed amazement and disgust.