The “Firm” were by no means elated at their decision, for they had yet to learn what revenge the senior would take upon them. Still, the effort and the common peril knit them together in bonds of closer brotherhood, and enabled them to face the future, if not cheerily, at least, with grim determination.
Pledge was considerably astounded that evening, just as he was speculating on the reason of Heathcote’s non-appearance, to see Coote’s round head suddenly thrust in at the door, and a small billet tossed on to the table.
Pledge was getting used to small billets by this time, and was rather tired of them. Coote, as he knew, was Cartwright’s fag; he therefore concluded that Cartwright was the writer of the note, and that being so, he pitched the paper unopened into the empty fireplace with a sneer.
He waited for another half-hour, and still Heathcote did not appear. Pledge didn’t like it, and began to grow concerned. Was it possible, after all, he had made too sure of his young friend?
Partly to pass the time, and partly with the vague idea that might throw some light on the matter, he had the curiosity to pick the neglected billet out of the hearth and open it.
His face went through a strange series of emotions as he read its extraordinary contents:—
Our Dear Pledge,—We think you will like to hear that Heathcote can’t fag for you. He doesn’t believe he really promised, but must be excused. We’ve made him do it because we don’t want him to be made a cad. He is very sorry, and hopes you won’t be a cad and let out about the row we are in. Excuse this short letter, and, with kind regards, believe us, our dear Pledge, your affectionate young friends, B. Richardson, G. Heathcote, A.D. Coote. Sunday afternoon.
This masterpiece of conciliatory firmness, which had cost the “Firm” an hour’s painful labour to concoct, brought out the angry spots on Pledge’s cheeks and forced some bad language from his lips.
The letter he had received from Mansfield a week ago had been nothing to this. Mansfield and he were equals, and a reverse at Mansfield’s hands was at least an ordinary misfortune of war.
But to be coolly flouted, and to have all the work of a term upset by three wretched youngsters, who called themselves his affectionate young friends, was a drop too much in the bucket of the “spider’s” humiliation.