“Oh, I can’t!” exclaimed Wyndham. “Who could work just before the race?”
So saying, he got up and gathered together his things.
Riddell was sorry for this. He had hoped the boy would stay. Amid all his fresh duties the new captain had kept his eye on his old friend’s brother, and of late he had seen things which made him uneasy. Wyndham was on friendly terms again with his two undesirable patrons, and simultaneously his work in the library and his visits to Riddell’s own study had become less regular. It all meant something, Riddell knew; and he knew, too, that that something was not any good. He made one attempt to detain the boy.
“You aren’t going?” he said kindly.
“Yes. It’s really no use grinding, to-night, Riddell.”
“Won’t you stop and keep me company, though?” asked the captain.
“You’re working,” said the boy. “I’ll come to-morrow. Good-night.”
And he went, leaving Riddell very uncomfortable. Why should he be so eager to go? Why should he always seem so restless now whenever he was in that study? Why should he always avoid any reference to—
Ah! here he was back again. A gleam of hope shot through Riddell’s breast as he saw the door open and Wyndham re-enter. Perhaps, after all, the boy was going to stay and give him a chance. But no, Wyndham had come back for his knife, which Riddell had borrowed for sharpening a pencil. That was all he wanted; and having recovered it he departed quickly.
Riddell spent the rest of that evening in low spirits. He had been baulked, and worse than that, he felt other hands were playing their game more successfully, and that amongst them all young Wyndham was going wrong.