“Then, they’ve done you a very good turn, my boy, and you’ll be grateful to them some day. As for the whip, you can tell them if they’ll come here for it, I’ll give it to them with pleasure. There goes the dinner bell—cut off, or you’ll be late.”
“Thanks, Cresswell. I suppose,” said the boy, lingering a moment at the door, “you won’t be obliged to tell everybody about it?”
“You can do that better than I can,” said the Sixth-form boy, laughing.
And Dick felt, as he hurried down to Hall, that he was something more than well out of it. Instead of meeting the fate which his own conceit had prepared, he had secured a friend at court, who, something told him, would stand by him in the coming term. His self-esteem had had a fall, but his self-respect had had a decided lift; for he felt now that he went in and out under inspection, and that Cresswell’s good opinion was a distinction by all means to be coveted.
As a token of his improved frame of mind, he made frank confession of the whole story to Heathcote during dinner; and found his friend, as he knew he would be, brimful of sympathy and relief at his narrow escape.
Swinstead and Birket, as they watched their man from their distant table, were decidedly perplexed by his cheerful demeanour, and full of curiosity to learn the history of the interview.
They waylaid him casually in the court that afternoon.
“Well, have you settled it?” said Birket.
“Eh? Oh, yes, it’s all right,” replied Dick, rather enjoying himself.
“He made no difficulty about it, did he?”