“Never mind,” said Cresswell, “Mansfield has got his eyes open, and I fancy he’ll be down in that quarter when he’s captain. Old Ponty won’t do it. He’s worse than ever. Won’t even come to practice, till he’s finished ‘Pickwick,’ he says.”
And the two friends strolled off rather despondently.
In due time Heathcote was allowed to divest himself of his armour, and accompany his senior indoors.
“You didn’t make a bad stand, youngster,” said Pledge, as they walked across the field, “especially at the end. Have you done much cricket?”
“Not much,” said Heathcote, blushing at the compliment.
“You should stick to it. You’ll get plenty of chance this term.”
“And yet,” said Heathcote to himself, “this is the fellow everybody tells me is a beast to be fought shy of, and not trusted for a minute.” He was almost tempted to interrogate Pledge point-blank on what it all meant; but his shyness prevented him.
Nothing occurred during the day to solve the mystery. There was comparatively little to be done in the way of fagging; and what little there was, was amply compensated for by the help Pledge gave him in his Latin composition in the evening.
Later on, while Pledge was away somewhere, Heathcote was putting the books away on to the shelves, and generally tidying up the study, when the door partly opened, and a small round missive was tossed on to the floor of the room.
Heathcote regarded the intruder in a startled way, as if it had been some infernal machine; but presently took courage to advance and take the missive in his hand. It was a small round cardboard box, about the size of a tennis ball, which, much to his surprise, bore his own name, printed in pen and ink, on the outside. He opened it nervously, and found a note inside, also addressed to himself, which ran thus:—