“You have an odd way of talking, Arthur, which doesn’t do you justice. As I said, you have more than once made me wonder whether you were not keeping back something about this wretched affair which I ought to know.”
“Honour bright, I know a jolly lot less about it than you; so you really needn’t be afraid of me; and Dig’s safe too. Safe as a door-nail.”
Railsford was able to write home on the following Sunday that Arthur had quite recovered his appetite, and that the “low” symptoms to which Dig had darkly referred had vanished altogether. Indeed, Arthur on this occasion developed that most happy of all accomplishments, the power of utterly forgetting that he had done or said anything either strange in itself or offensive to others. He was hail-fellow-well-met with the boys he had lately kicked and made miserable; he did not know what you were talking about when you reminded him that a day or two ago he had behaved like a cad to you; and, greatest exploit of all, he had the effrontery to charge Dig with being “spoons” on Violet, and to hold him up to general ridicule in consequence!
“How much have you really got for the testimonial?” said Dig one morning.
“Eleven and six,” said Arthur dismally; “not a great lot, but enough for a silver ring.”
“Not with Daisy’s name on it.”
“No, we’ll have to drop that, unless we can scratch it on.”
“We’ll have a try. When shall we give it?”
“To-morrow’s Rag Sunday, isn’t it? Let’s give it him to-night—after tea. I’ll write out a list of the chaps, and you can get up an address, unless Felgate will come and give him a speech.”
“Think he will? All serene. We’ll give the fellows the tip, and do the thing in style. Hadn’t you better cut and get the ring, I say?”