He stared at the letter in a stupid way, like one bewildered. Even its quaint phrases and artless attempts at conciliation failed to raise a sneer on his lips. Something told him it was the hardest hit yet, and that out of the mouths of these honest babes and sucklings his confusion had reached its climax.
If Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote snapped their fingers at him in the face of all Templeton, who else would care a fig about him?
The one grain of comfort was in the possession of the secret of Mr Webster’s pencil, to which Pledge clung as his last and winning card.
How to make the most of it was the important question Pledge decided not to be impatient. Wednesday was to be the great election for the “Sociables,” and, if our heroes’ names appeared on the list, as rumour already said they would, his blow would tell best if held over till then.
So he sat down, and acknowledged the “Firm’s” note as follows:—
My Dear Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote,—Pray do as you like. Promises are never made to be kept by “Select Sociables” of your high character. I do not understand what you mean about your row. What row are you in? Are you in a row? You don’t call that little matter that I am expecting to talk to the “Sociables” about on Wednesday a row, do you? Please give my kind regards to Georgie Heathcote, and tell him he will need to beg hard before I trouble him to lay my cloth. No doubt he has given you many interesting stories of the miserable week he spent with me last holidays in London. I’m not surprised at his turning against me after that. I hope I shall not have to tell anyone some of the stories he has told me of Richardson and Coote. Excuse this long letter, and believe me, my dear young jail-birds, your “affectionate” P. Pledge.
This bitter effusion was read next morning by the “Firm” as they walked down to the “Tub.” Its full sting did not come out till after three or four careful perusals, and then the “Firm” looked blankly at one another with lengthened faces.
“I couldn’t believe any fellow could be such a cad,” said Dick.
“It’s jolly awkward!” said Heathcote. “You know he was awfully civil to me in London, and it does seem low to be cutting him now.”
“Civil, be hanged!” said Dick. “He tried to get hold of you to make a cad of you, that’s what he did; and you were precious near being one, too, when you came back, weren’t you?”