“Who do they think went off with her?” asked another.
“They don’t say; but they’re rather good at running things down, are our police. Do you recollect the way they bowled out the fellow who tried to burn the boat-house last year, and got him six months?”
This police gossip was so alarming to our two heroes, that they gave up taking walks along the beach, and retired to the privacy of the school boundaries, where there was no lack of occupation, indoor and out, to relieve the monotony of life.
A week after the Grandcourt match, a boy called Braider came up to Dick and asked to speak to him. Braider was in the Fourth, and Dick knew of him as a racketty, roystering sort of fellow, very popular with his own set—and thought something of by the Den, on account of some recent offences against monitorial authority.
“I say,” said he to Dick, confidentially, “what do you say to belonging to our Club?”
“What Club?” asked Dick, scenting some new distinction, and getting light-headed in consequence.
“You’ll promise not to go telling everybody,” said Braider. “We’re called the ‘Sociables,’ It’s a jolly enough lot. Only twenty of us, and we have suppers and concerts once a week. The thing is, it’s awfully select, and a job to get into it. But your name was mentioned the other day, and I fancy you’d get in.”
“I suppose Georgie Heathcote isn’t in it?” said Dick.
“Rather not!” said the other, mistaking his meaning; “he’d have no chance.”
“He’s not a bad fellow,” said Dick. “I wouldn’t mind if he was on.”