“Oh! I’m afraid, though, you’re rather glad of an excuse to cut Silks and me after the row we got you into last week.”
“You didn’t get me into any row,” said Wyndham. “What! didn’t he lick you for it? Ah! I see how it is. He’s afraid you’d let out on him for being down too. Rather a good dodge too. Gilks and I half thought of reporting him, but we didn’t.”
“He had a permit, hadn’t he?”
“Oh, yes—rather! I don’t doubt that. Just like Brown’s, the town boy’s excuses. Writes them himself.”
“I’m certain Riddell wouldn’t do such a thing,” said Wyndham, warming.
“I never said he would,” replied Silk, seeing he was going a little too far. “You see, captains don’t want permits. There’s no one to pull them up. But I say, I’m awfully sorry about last week.”
“Oh! it doesn’t matter,” said Wyndham, who could not help being rather gratified to hear a monitor making apologies to him; “only I don’t mean to go down again.”
“No, of course not; and if Gilks suggests it I’ll back you up. By the way,” he added, in tones of feigned alarm, “I suppose you didn’t tell him about going to Beamish’s, did you?”
“No,” said Wyndham, whose conscience had already reproached him several times for not having confessed the fact.
“I’m awfully glad of that,” said Silk, apparently much relieved. “Whatever you do, keep that quiet.”