“What on earth do you mean, you young muff?” he exclaimed. “I mean, may I go and tell him that I went those two times to Beamish’s? I promise to say nothing about you.” Gilks laughed once more.
“What do I care what you go and tell him?” he said. “If you want to get expelled as badly as all that I don’t want to prevent you, I’m sure.”
“Then I really may?” exclaimed poor Wyndham, scarcely believing his own ears.
“Of course, if you keep me out of it, what on earth do I care what you tell him? You may tell him you murdered somebody there for all I care.”
“Oh, thanks, thanks,” cried Wyndham with a positively beaming face. “I give you my word I won’t even mention you or Silk.”
“As long as you don’t mention me, that’s all I care for,” said Gilks; “and upon my word,” added he, with a sigh half to himself, “I don’t much care whether you do or not!”
Wyndham was too delighted and relieved to pay any heed to this last dreary remark, and gratefully took his leave, feeling that though the battle was anything but won yet he was at least a good deal nearer hope than he had been an hour ago.
But he very soon checked the reviving flow of his spirits as the prospect of an interview with Silk began to loom out ahead.
He had not seen Silk since the evening of the Rockshire match, when, as the reader will remember the meeting was anything but a pleasant one, and, but for the timely arrival of a third party, might have ended severely for the younger boy.
The recollection of this did not certainly add to the hopefulness of his present undertaking; but young Wyndham was a boy of such a sanguine temper, and such elastic spirits, that he could not help hoping something would turn up in his favour even now. He had got on far better than he had dared to hope with Gilks, why not also with Silk?