“So you can.”
“How?”
“Next time he wants you to go and drink, say No,” said Reginald.
“Upon my word I will,” said Gedge; “and I don’t care how hot he makes it for me, if you stick by me, Cruden.”
“You know I’ll stick by you, young ’un,” said Reginald; “but that won’t do you much good, unless you stick by yourself. Suppose Durfy managed to get rid of me after all—”
“Then I should go to—to the dogs,” said Gedge, emphatically.
“You’re a greater fool than I took you for, then,” said Reginald. “If you only knew,” he added more gently, “what a job it is to do what’s right myself, and how often I don’t do it, you’d see it’s no use expecting me to be good for you and myself both.”
“What on earth am I to do, then? I’m certain I can’t keep square myself; I never could. Who’s to look after me if you don’t?”
Like a brave man, Reginald, shy and reserved as he was, told him.
I need not repeat what was said that morning over the type cases. It was not a sermon, nor a catechism; only a few stammering laboured words spoken by a boy who felt himself half a hypocrite as he said them, and who yet, for the affection he bore his friend, had the courage to go through with a task which cost him twenty times the effort of rescuing the boy yesterday from his bodily peril.