“Take notice that you are kicked out of the Philosophers, and if you dare show your abominable face within a mile of them you’ll get it all over with rulers. It has been resolved by Mr Langrish and seconded by Mr Trimble, and passed by all the lot, that you be and are hereby kicked whenever any one sees you. Any one not kicking you will be lammed. It is also resolved that the faggery be fumigated and disinfected during the holidays, and that any chap seen talking to you be refused to be let in till he has been vaccinated. You are about the lowest, meanest, vilest, abominablest, unmitigatedest sneak going. Three cheers for poor old Tempest, and down with girls’ schools and washerwomen!”
This fiery document was formally signed by every Philosopher in the house, together with a particular word of opprobrium addressed to me by each of my former colleagues.
I was not long in realising that I was an outcast in Sharpe’s. No one would look at me, still less speak to me. Pridgin ordered me off like a dog. Wales slammed his door in my face. When I appeared in the preparation hall, a long hiss saluted me, even though Mr Sharpe was present. Even outside fellows seemed to have heard of my crime, and looked askance or gave me a wide berth. I can truly say that I found myself the most miserable boy in Low Heath, and only longed for the end of the term to come, that I might shake the dust of the hateful place from my feet, and drop out of the sight of a school full of enemies.
Indeed, as I lay awake that night I had serious thoughts of making off there and then. If I had only had my boots, I think I might have done so; but they were in the blacking-room; and my desperation drew the line at walking off in my bare feet.
I was sitting up in bed, half whimpering with headache and misery, when a light appeared at the end of the dormitory. It was Crofter, in his new capacity of head of the house, taking his rounds before turning in. The sight of him brought home to me the injury I had done, not only to Tempest, but the whole house. For it was my fault, and mine only, that Crofter was at this moment captain of Sharpe’s.
To my surprise and alarm, when he came up to my bed he stopped short, and drawing a letter from his pocket, put it into my hand, saying—
“Put that under your pillow till the morning.”
It was more than nature could do to sleep with a mystery like this on the top of my misery. I listened to the clock as it struck the hours through the night, and thought the day would never come. Indeed, the getting-up bell had sounded before the winter sun struggled in through the dormitory window.
Then by the light of a candle I seized the missive from under my pillow and tore it open.
A five-pound note fell out, and with it the following letter.