“Whose house are you going to live in?”
“Mr Westover’s.”
“Oh!” said Dick, abruptly ending the conversation, and turning round towards Heathcote.
In due time the meal was over, and the boys were told they could do as they liked for the next hour, until the matron was at leisure to show them their quarters.
So for another hour the promenade in the Quadrangle was resumed. Not so dismally, however, as before. The tea had broken the ice wonderfully, and instead of the studied avoidance of the afternoon, one group and another fell now to comparing notes, and rehearsing the legends they had heard of Templeton and its inmates. And gradually a fellow-feeling made every one wondrous kind, and the little army of twenty in the prospect of to-morrow’s battles, drew together in bonds of self-defence, and felt all very like brothers.
Aspinall, however, who knew no one, and had not dared to join himself to any of the groups, paced in solitude at a distance, hoping for nothing better than that he might escape notice and be left to himself. But Dick, whose interest in him had become very decided, found him out before long and, much to his terror, insisted in introducing him to Heathcote and attaching him to their party.
“There’s nothing to be in a funk about, young ’un,” said he. “I know I don’t mean to funk it, whatever they do to me.”
“I’ll back you up, old man, all I can,” said Heathcote.
“I expect it’s far the best way not to kick out, but just go through with it,” said Dick. “That’s what my father says, and he had a pretty rough time of it, he said, at first.”
“Oh, yes; I’m sure it’s all the worse for a fellow if he funks or gets out of temper.”