A fortnight before the examination, to the day, Pledge began to work, and Templeton put down the Bishop’s scholarship to him, without further parley. Only two men were against him—Cartwright, who, fine fellow as he was, could not desert the cricket field and gymnasium even in the throes of an examination, and Freckleton, the hermit, whom half of Templeton didn’t know by sight, and the other half put down as a harmless lunatic, who divided his time between theological exercises and plodding, but not always successful, study.
Our heroes, being new boys, were exempt from the general school examinations—their guerdon of reward being the general proficiency prize for new boys, a vague term, in which good conduct, study, and progress, were all taken into account. Dick sadly admitted that he was out of it. Still he vaguely hoped he might “pull off his remove,” as the phrase went—that is, get raised next term to the serene atmosphere of the lower Fourth, along with the faithful Heathcote.
But nowhere was the studious fit more serious than in the upper Fifth, where Birket, Swinstead, Wrangham and one or two others, cast longing eyes on the vacant desk in the Sixth, and strained every nerve to win it. Cricket flagged, and it was hard during that fortnight to make up a set at tennis. The early “Tub” alone retained its attractions, and indeed was never more crowded than when Templeton was heart and soul in study.
One fellow regarded the whole scene half sadly, and that was Ponty. Indolent as he seemed to be, he loved the old school, and hated the thought of leaving it. He had friends there that were like brothers to him. There were nooks here and there where he had lounged and enjoyed life, which seemed like so many homes. He knew he had not done anything great for Templeton. He knew he had let the tares grow side by side with the wheat, and made no effort to uproot them. He knew that there were boys there whom he ought to have befriended, and others he ought to have scathed; and it made him sad now to think of all he might have done.
“I don’t think they’ll erect a statue to me in the Quad, old man,” said he to Mansfield at the end of the examination.
“I know there isn’t a fellow that won’t be sorry to lose you,” said Mansfield.
“Ah! no doubt. They’ve had quiet times under easy-going old Saturn, and don’t fancy the prospect of Jove, with his thunderbolts, ruling in his stead. Eh?”
“If I could be sure of fellows being as fond of me as they are of you, I should—well, I should get something I don’t expect,” said Mansfield.
“Don’t be too sure, old man,” said Ponty. “But, I say, will you take a hint from a failure like me?” added the old captain, digging deep into his pockets, and looking a trifle nervous.
“Rather. I’d only be too thankful,” said Mansfield.