He contrived, however, to keep up an appearance of scornful indifference.
“You are still reaping the rewards of virtue, pious homicide,” he sneered.
“I still envy the upright man who does his duty,” replied Jeffreys, scarcely less bitterly.
“What do you mean, you—”
“I mean what I say,” said Jeffreys, turning on his heel, and taking Percy’s arm.
They walked home, and before Clarges Street was reached Percy had told his friend an unvarnished story of the follies of the last few days, and enlisted his support in his determination to pull up.
There was something touching in the mingled shame and anger of the proud boy as he made his confession, not sparing himself, and full of scorn at those who had tempted him. Jeffreys was full of righteous wrath on his behalf, and ran up a score against Scarfe which would have astonished that worthy, listlessly loafing about at Windsor, had he guessed it.
“I’ve promised to go and see the Boat Race with them,” said Percy; “but you must come too. I know you’ll hate it, and so will they; but somehow I can’t do without a little backing up.”
“I’ll back you up, old fellow, all I can, I only wish,” added he, for the boy’s confidence in him humiliated him, “I had a better right to do it.”
“Why, Jeff, I don’t suppose you ever did a bad thing in your life.”