All this made him go over the adventures of that memorable day often in his mind, and think that after all it wasn’t a bad day’s sport, and that, though he said so who shouldn’t, he had managed things fairly well, and got his money’s worth.
His money’s worth, however, reminded him of his lost half-sovereign and his mother’s photograph, and these reflections usually pulled him up short in his reminiscences.
Heathcote, in a more philosophical and dismal way, had his perils, and Pledge gave him no help through his difficulty. On the contrary, he encouraged his growing discontent.
“Dismals again?” said he, one evening. “That cane of Winter’s must be a stiff one if it cuts you up like that.”
“Winter always does lay it on thick to the kids, though,” said Wrangham, who happened to be present. “His lickings are in inverse ratio to the size of the licked.”
It did comfort Heathcote to hear his case discussed in such learned and mathematical terms, but that was all the consolation he got.
Dick was in far too exalted a frame of mind to give much assistance.
“What does it matter?” said he, recklessly. “I don’t mean to fret myself.”
And so the matter ended for the present. The two friends were bearing their ordeal in two such different ways that they might almost have parted company, had there not been another common interest of still greater importance to bind them together.
One day Heathcote came up from the “Tub” at a canter and caught his friend at the chapel door.