My whistling ceased, my air of dejection increased. I must be unsociable no longer. Let me rejoin my dear schoolfellows, making a little détour in order to appear to reach them from the direction not of the pond but of the orchard.
I was sheering off by the lower end of the pond, when, to my horror, I perceived a boy groping on the grass on all fours, apparently digging up the ground with a trowel.
On closer inspection I found that it was Dicky.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said he, as I came upon him. “Have you done chucking things into the pond?”
“Why,” said I, taken aback; “why, Dicky, what on earth are you up to?”
“Never mind—an experiment, that’s all. I’m glad it’s only you. I was afraid it was some one else. You must be jolly hard up for a bit of fun to come and chuck things into the pond.”
“Oh!” said I, with tell-tale embarrassment, “I just strolled down for the walk. I didn’t know you’d taken to gardening.”
“There goes the bell,” said Dicky. “Cut up. I’ll be there as soon as you.”
I obeyed, mystified and uncomfortable. Suppose Dicky had seen the pistol! I found the fellows hanging about the school door waiting to go in.
“Been to the funeral, kid?” said the Dux, as I approached. I wished he would speak more quietly on such dangerous topics when Plummer was within earshot.