“Oh, do you mind my going across to Riddell’s?” asked the boy; “he’ll think I’ve cut him if I don’t show up. I’ve not been to his room for half a week.”
“It’s a curious thing he has survived it so long,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “Mind you are back by 8:30, though, for I’ll have lock-up punctual to-night, while there’s so much row going on.”
“Thanks, Fairbairn,” said Wyndham. “I say, what a stunning score our house knocked up in the second innings. Why, we—”
“Cut off,” cried Fairbairn, “and tell Riddell all about it. Come on, you fellows.”
Wyndham hurried on full of the prospect of a talk over the match with Riddell.
Just at the door of Welch’s, however, he met Silk.
The two had scarcely met since the day of the election, when Wyndham, to spite Riddell, had joined himself to this bad friend, and yielded to his persuasion to go down, against leave, to Shellport.
“Oh, young ’un,” said Silk, in friendly tones, “you turned up? I’d almost given you up for good.”
“I’m going to Riddell’s,” said Wyndham, determined for once to stand by his colours and have nothing more to do with this tempter.
Silk’s face fell, as it always did when Riddell’s name was mentioned. He had imagined the boy was coming to see him, and it did not please him to find himself mistaken.