Riddell was quick enough to see that there was something of the sort, and did not press to know more. It was too good news to hear from the boy’s own lips that he was determined to break loose from these bad friends, to need to know any more.
“I don’t know how it is,” said Wyndham, after another pause. “It seems so much easier for some fellows to keep square than for others. I’ve made up my mind I’d do right a dozen times this term, but it’s never come off.”
“It’s hard work, I know,” said Riddell, sympathisingly.
“Yet it seems easy enough to you. I say, I wish you’d look sharp after me for a week or so, Riddell, till I get a good start.”
Riddell laughed.
“A lot of good that would do you! The best person to look sharp after young Wyndham is young Wyndham himself.”
“Of course I know,” said the boy, “but I’ve sort of lost confidence in myself.”
“We can’t any of us stand by ourselves,” said the captain. “I know I can’t. But the help is easy to get, isn’t it?”
I need not repeat all the talk that took place that morning between the two boys. What they said was meant for no ears but their own. How one in his quiet manly way tried to help the younger boy, and how the other with all sorts of fears and hopes listened and took courage, was known only to the two friends themselves, and to One other from Whom no secrets—not even the secrets of a schoolboy—are hid.
The bell for call-over put an end to their talk, and with lighter hearts than most in Willoughby they walked across to the Great Hall and heard the doctor’s sentence on the truants of yesterday.