“Oh,” said Dick, screwing himself up to the pitch, “Swinstead told me to come to you.”
“Oh,” said the other, in a tone of great interest, “what about?”
“About the—I mean—something about the—the Harriers,” said Dick, suddenly beginning to see things in a new light.
“About the Harriers?” said Cresswell, rising to his feet and lounging up against the mantel-piece, in order to take a good survey of his visitor. “What does Mr Swinstead want to know about the Harriers?”
The sight of the champion there, drawn up to his full height, with power and speed written on every turn of his figure, sent Dick’s mind jumping, at one bound, to the truth. What an ass he had been going to make of himself, and what a time he would have had if he hadn’t found out the trick in time! As it was, he could not help laughing at the idea of his own ridiculous position, and the narrow escape he had had.
“What are you grinning at?” said Cresswell sharply, not understanding the little burst of merriment in his presence.
Dick recovered himself, and said simply, “They’ve been trying to make a fool of me. I beg your pardon for bothering you.”
“Hold hard!” said Cresswell, as the boy was about to retreat. “It’s very likely they have made a fool of you—they’re used to hard work. But you’re not going to make a fool of me. Come in and tell me all about it.”
Dick coloured up crimson, and threw himself on the monitor’s mercy.
“You’ll think me such an ass,” said he, appealingly. “It’s really nothing.”