Dick looked bewildered. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. "How, please, does this concern me? Your son at Foxenby! Who, pray, may that be?"
"My name is Mawdster, and my son's name is Peter. Now, perhaps you'll 'get' me. My poor, delicate boy has been shockingly ill-treated, and you've stood by and looked on. Come, you don't deny it, Mr. Forge."
This was truly an eye-opener to Dick. Clear as noonday now became the mystery of young Mawdster's championship of the Rag. That parting shot of his, in which he had told the co-editors that he had not meant to praise the contents of the Rag, but only its printing and "make-up", was fully explained. The manager of the Cleartype Press and the fat, unhealthy Squirm were father and son.
"Well, Mr. Mawdster, I admit that your boy has become unpopular with his class-mates, but he boards in Holbeck's House and is therefore not under my protection. His remedy for ill-treatment lies with his own prefect and housemaster. I cannot interfere in any circumstances."
"Oh, can't you, Mr. High-and-mighty Captain!" snarled the manager, mocking Dick's dignified tones. "But you'll jolly well have to, or I'll know the reason why. You've got into my ribs for a lot of money—more perhaps than you dream of—and I guess I hold the whip-hand of you all right. You'll either take my poor boy's part at Foxenby or sup sorrow, Mr. Forge."
"Don't be vulgar, and don't be absurd, Mr. Mawdster. Keep business and private affairs apart. Admittedly, I cannot pay you yet for publishing the magazine, but on that account you shall not blackmail me."
At this the manager suddenly dropped his threatening manner, and became more like his old suave self. He commenced to wheedle.
"Look here, Mr. Forge, don't let us quarrel, you and me," he said. "You've got a rare lot of power at Foxenby if you like to use it. I appeal to you as a father. I love my boy—he's the only child we've got, and it cost a little fortune to rear him, he was so weak at first. But I'd spend another fortune—ay, all I've got in the world—to see him happy and to know he was making nice chums amongst gentlemen's sons up yonder. Stop them bullyin' him, Mr. Forge, and—and——"
"And what?" asked Dick.
"And I'll present you with a signed receipt for every penny that your magazine has cost me," the printer blurted out. "I say, that's fair, isn't it? You couldn't have a more sporting offer."