“31—Richardson,” read the Doctor, making a pause on the announcement which cut the penitent Dick to the quick; “32—Fox; 33—Sumpter; 34—Whiles; 35—Heathcote; 36—Hooker, junior. That is all.”
Poor Heathcote! He had buoyed himself up to the last. He had reminded himself that he was not a prig or a saint, that he didn’t go in for conduct that “paid,” that he called a spade a spade, and that he didn’t profess to be what he wasn’t; and yet all this failed to place him higher than last but one of thirty-six boys, among whom, only four months ago, he stood fifteenth! Even Dick had beaten him now, although Dick himself had fallen ten places down the list.
The two friends had a dreary walk round the deserted Fields that afternoon.
“I can’t make it out,” said Heathcote. “I knew I hadn’t done well, but I expected to be higher than that. I wonder if Winter’s got a spite against me.”
“More likely got one against me. Did you hear the way he read out my name?”
“Yes; he may have been surprised you came out so high.”
“It’s nothing to joke about,” said Dick. “We’ve both made a mess of it.”
“I really thought I’d done my lessons pretty steadily,” said Heathcote, loth to part with the idea that there must be a mistake somewhere.
“You mean Pledge did them for you. I tell you what, old man—I’ve had enough of this sort of mess. I don’t like it.”
“No more do I,” said Heathcote, very truly.