“He cuts me dead,” said Heathcote.
“And you break your heart? Of course you do. I knew you couldn’t get on without him.”
“I don’t break my heart at all!” said Heathcote, savagely.
“No; you look as if you were going to hang yourself! How glad he’ll be to see dear Georgie sorrowing for his sins! If you’ll take my advice, you’ll go out next time you see him and lie down at his feet and ask him kindly to tread upon you.”
“I’m not going to bother about him!” said Heathcote, miserably. “If he wants to make up, he’ll have to come and ask me himself.”
“And, of course, you’ll fall on his neck, and weep, and say, ‘Oh! yes, I loved you always.’ Very pretty! Seriously, youngster—don’t make a donkey of yourself! As long as it pays him to cut you, he will cut you, and when it pays him better to be friends, he’ll want to be friends. Don’t make yourself too cheap. You’re better than a dirty halfpenny, to be played pitch and toss with.”
These words sank deep in the boy’s disturbed mind, and drove away any lingering desire for an immediate reconciliation.
Day after day the two old chums met and cut one another dead, and the spectacle of the “split” became a part of every-day life at Templeton.
At the end of a week fellows almost forgot that David and Jonathan had ever been on speaking terms.
Then an unlooked-for incident caused a diversion and upset the calculations of everybody.