He spent the interval dismally in a retired corner of the field, where he hoped to be able to collect his shattered wits in peace. But it was no good. He could see no way through it.
“Oh!” thought he, for the hundredth time, “how I wish I had really taken it!”
He had just arrived at this conclusion, when a light step approaching, caused him to look up, and see Dick.
“Hullo, old man,” said the latter, “how jolly blue you look. What’s the row?”
Coote repeated his dismal story, and marked the dismay which crept over his leader’s face as he told it.
“By Jove, old man,” said Dick, “it’s a mess. How ever are you to get out?”
“That’s just what I don’t know,” groaned Coote. “If I only had the pencil it would be all right. But, really and truly, Dick, I never took it; did I?”
“All serene,” said Dick. “But, I say, if you can’t give him the pencil back, perhaps you can pay him for it.”
“It cost thirty shillings; and I’ve only got seven-and-six.”
“I’ve got ten shillings,” said Dick. “That’s seventeen-and-six. Perhaps if we gave him that, he’d wait for the rest.”