“Then, by Jove! it must have been Freckleton,” exclaimed Dick, interpreting the guilty look on the Hermit’s face. “Was it, I say?”
“‘Dominat qui in se dominatur’!” said the Hermit in a sepulchral tone. “Yes, my boy; but keep it mum. I shan’t waste my Latin over you again in a hurry.”
“Your letter really made me sit up,” said Dick, gravely.
“Well, I expect,” said Cresswell, “if Templeton goes on as she’s doing now, the poor Ghost will be hard up for a job. Mansfield is the right man in the right place, and he’s more right than ever now.”
“That he is,” said Freckleton, warmly. “I can tell you fellows that, in spite of his iron hand, he’s one of the humblest fellows that ever lived. I believe he prays for Templeton night and morning, and that’s more than a lot of us do, I fear.”
“After all,” said Mr Richardson, “that’s the best sort of Christian. A man who lives up to what he believes will lead fifty, where a man who believes more than he acts up to will barely lead one.”
“It strikes me,” said Freckleton, “it’s no joke to be a leader of men, or boys either; is it, Dick?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Dick. “It’s no good as long as you don’t go quite straight yourself. You’ve got to go square yourself, I suppose, before any one else will back you up.”
“Yes,” said Coote; “we couldn’t back you up, you know, while you were going on as you were, could we, Dick?”
“Didn’t look like it,” said Dick, with a grin.