Mr Richardson was delighted with his boy’s seniors, and they were no less delighted with him. The whole story of Tom White’s boat was rehearsed again, as were also the other stories of the term, finishing up with the eventful assembly of the afternoon.
“It wasn’t a pleasant affair at all,” said Cresswell, “but thunderstorms do clear the air sometimes, and I think Templeton understands itself better now.”
“Of course we shall have Pledge still,” said Freckleton, “but, as long as fellows know what he is, he’s not dangerous. It’s when he gets hold of young greenhorns like Heathcote and Coote he does mischief.”
“He never got hold of me,” said Coote.
“I was an ass to let him make a cad of me,” said Heathcote. “I had warning, you know; the Ghost wrote to me before I’d been here a fortnight.”
“What Ghost?” asked Mr Richardson.
Cresswell laughed.
“Nobody knows,” said he, “though some of us guess.”
“Who? Was it you?” asked Dick. “I got a letter too, you know.”
“No; it wasn’t I.”