That senior, after his unceremonious deposition from the monitorship by Mansfield, had been considerably exercised in his mind how to hold up his head with dignity in Templeton.
He was acute enough to see that his chief offence in the eyes of these enemies had been, not open rebellion, or a flagrant breach of rules, but his influence over the juniors with whom he came into contact.
Over George Heathcote’s soul, especially, he saw that a great battle had been waged, and was still waging, in which, somehow or other, the two great parties of Templeton seemed involved.
So far, the battle had gradually gone against Pledge. Just when he had considered the youngster his own, he had been quietly snatched off by Dick, and before he could be recovered, the monitors had stepped in and taken Dick’s side, and left him, Pledge, discomfited, and a laughing-stock to Templeton.
Had they? Pledge chuckled to himself, as he thought of Mr Webster’s pencil, and of the toils in which, as he flattered himself, he still held both Heathcote and Dick. They were sure of their darling little protégés, were they? Not so sure, reflected Pledge, as they think. They might even yet sue for terms, when they found that by a single word he could change the lodgings of the two sweet babes from Templeton to the county jail.
He, therefore, in moderately cheerful spirits, allowed a day or two to pass, avoiding even a further visit to Webster; and then casually waylaid his old fag as he was returning, decidedly depressed in mind, from saying good-bye to Mr Richardson.
“Why, Georgie, old man,” said Pledge, “how festive you look! The change of air from my study to Swinstead’s has done you good. Where have you been all the morning?”
“I’ve just come up from the town,” said Heathcote, wishing he could get away.
“Ah, trying to square somebody up, eh? It’s not quite as easy as one might think; is it?”
Heathcote looked doubtfully up at his old senior’s face, and said nothing.