I was reckless and defiant, and deaf to Dicky’s sympathy.
“I don’t care,” said I. “It was a good job for you he came up. I should have licked you hollow.”
“No, you wouldn’t, old chap; I had you over twice,” said Dicky.
“Come outside and finish it out.”
So we adjourned to the other side of the palings and finished it out in the presence of the assembled Urbans and Philosophers. And I grieve to say once more Dicky had me on my back.
The wrath of my comrades was even more grievous to bear than the rejoicings of the enemy. I was promptly withdrawn from the fray as a bad lot, and had it not been for the opportune bell, should probably have been kicked all round.
At any rate, I went in disgusted with myself, with Low Heath, with everybody. What was the use of keeping it up? Tempest, ten to one, was expelled. Dicky Brown, once my inferior, could put me on my back. The Philosophers hated me. Mr Sharpe had marked me down for exemplary punishment, and publicly denounced me as the worst boy in the house. And all this in a single term. What, I wondered, would it be like, if I remained, at the end of a second term?
I looked dismally into Tempest’s study—he was not back. Pridgin was in, but did not want me. The faggery just now was impossible. I never felt more lonely and miserable in my life.
I was wandering down the passage, with my jacket flung over my shoulder and my shirt sleeves still tucked up, when the voice of Crofter stopped me.
“Look here,” said he, “the contents of your pocket may be interesting to you, but we don’t want them littered about the passage. Here, catch hold,” and he held out a handful of loose letters. “Why, what’s the matter? How blue you look! Has any one been hurting you?”