“Leave them with me, too.”
Heathcote felt uncomfortable, and it occurred to him it was not right to accept another’s help.
“I think I ought to do them myself,” said he, “I don’t like having them done for me.”
“Quite right, my dear young friend. You’re beginning to find out it pays to be a good little boy, are you? I always said you would. I only hope you’ll make a good thing of it.”
Heathcote coloured up violently.
“It’s not that at all,” said he, “it’s only— would it do if I went after preparation this evening?”
“What! Saint George propose to break rules? Well, I am shocked; after all my pains, too. No, my child, I couldn’t let you do this wicked thing.”
“What book am I to ask for?” said Heathcote, giving it up.
“Thanks, old man. There’s something better than the saint in you, after all. Tell Webster it’s the book I ordered last week. It is paid for.”
Heathcote started on his mission with a heavy heart. He had lost caste, he feared, with Pledge, and he was running into the enemy’s country and perilling not only himself, but Dick, in the venture.