Dick started again at this and shook off the spell that was upon him. How dared Pauncefote come between him and his Firm? If fellows voted for him—Dick—what on earth did they mean by not voting also for Georgie and Coote? He faced defiantly round towards the reader and waited for the next name.
“Smith.”
Dick quailed as he listened to the mighty cheer with which Pauncefote welcomed his chum into the realms of the Select. Pauncefote and Smith were partners; they hunted in couples, they wrote novels together: and here they were side by side, while the “Firm” was cruelly severed member from member. Surely Nemesis was having a fling too many if this was her doing!
“Heathcote.”
“Ah! about time, too,” thought Dick, as he raised his voice in a defiant cheer. He’d like a quiet five minutes with the fellows who had dared to pass his chum by in the voting. But, at any rate, Georgie was safe, and, if only Coote came next, the “Firm” could afford to snap its fingers at its constituents.
“Cazenove.”
What! fat Cazenove jammed in between the “Firm” and its junior partner! Dick and Georgie glared at him, scarcely able to repress a howl at the sight of his smiling expanse of countenance. It had never occurred to any of them that the ballot may part friends whom not even a sentence of transportation could have severed, and they looked on, now more than half bewildered, as the scrutineer read out the sixth name.
“For the sixth place,” said he, “there appears to be a dead-heat. Calverly and Coote have both the same number of votes. What’s to be done, mighty Lycurgus?”
“Say you retire!” shouted Dick to the astonished Calverly, on whom the announcement had fallen with as much surprise as it had on his friends.
“Don’t you do anything of the sort,” shouted Gosse; “you’re are as good as that lot. Stick in!”