But the sight of Dick on the Templeton platform drove all his unhealthy philosophy for a time from his mind, and when, an hour later, the train from G— came in and discharged Coote and Coote’s hat-box and travelling-bag, there was joy in the hearts of those three old Mountjoy boys, which could not find vent in mere smiles or words of greeting.
Coote was in a horrible flutter, despite the countenance of his two protectors. He could not trust himself out of their sight. As they walked up from the station and crossed the Quadrangle, he suspected a snare everywhere, and sniffed an enemy at every corner.
“Come on, old fellow,” said Dick, in all the glory of an old hand, “stick your hat on the back of your head, and make a face at everybody you meet, and nobody will humbug you.”
Coote had his doubts of this advice; but, it occurred to him, if it should be good, he had better make the experiment while his friends were there to protect him.
So he tilted his hat cautiously back, and timidly protruded his tongue at Culver, whom they met staggering under the weight of a carpet bag, near the housekeeper’s door.
Culver regarded the demonstration with a certain amount of bewildered disfavour, and, to Coote’s terror, looked for a moment like putting down his carpet bag. But the presence of Dick and Heathcote deterred him for the present, and he contented himself with a promise that tilted the new boy’s hat back into its proper elevation with wonderful celerity.
“Never mind him,” said Heathcote, “he always doubles up after five or six rounds.”
“Do you mean he will fight me?” asked Coote.
“Bless you, yes!”
“To-day, do you think?”