“Yes, the young ’un cuts them dead now,” said Porter, “but he’s a bit afraid of them still, I fancy.”
“I suppose they could let out upon him about some scrape or other,” said Coates, “and that’s what gives them a pull.”
“Anyhow, it’s a good job he has pulled up,” said Fairbairn, “for he’s not a bad youngster. He’s got into the second-eleven just lately, and is tremendously proud of it. He’s vowed he’ll get old Wyndham to come down and umpire in the match with Templeton second-eleven next month.”
All this talk was anything but pleasant for poor Riddell. Little did the speakers dream of the connection between the boat-race and young Wyndham; in fact, the latter topic, as he knew quite well, had been started on purpose to get over the awkwardness which his own confusion about the former had caused.
But to Riddell, with that knife burning in his pocket, it was all one prolonged torture, so that he was heartily glad when at length his friends rose to depart.
He excused himself from walking across the quadrangle with them, and said good-night in a spiritless way, very different from the cheery manner in which he had welcomed them an hour ago.
“I never saw such a rum fellow as Riddell,” said Coates, as the three strolled over. “Did you see how cut up he got when something was said about the boat-race?”
“He’s a little cracked on that subject,” said Fairbairn. “I do believe, until the culprit is found out, he considers himself responsible for the whole affair.”
“Well, to judge by his looks he might have been the culprit himself,” said Porter, laughing. “Hullo, here’s young Wyndham.”
“Where are you off to?” asked Fairbairn, with due monitorial solemnity, of that flighty youth; “don’t you know it’s nearly eight?”