“I see nothing to fight about,” said Crofter. “I don’t see what there is to be angry about.”
Tempest waited motionless for a few uncomfortable moments, in the hope that Crofter would pluck up spirit to accept the challenge. But, as Crofter only smiled, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. As he passed me, he beckoned me imperiously to follow him. I did so in terror.
He put a piece of paper and a pen before me.
“Write down there an account of every bill you paid, and the amount.”
I obeyed—my memory fortunately served me for the task.
“Now go. You’ve had the satisfaction of seeing me make an ass of myself in striking that cad—he’s not worth it. You may go and tell him I’m sorry if you like. As for you, I don’t want to see any more of you. Go to your captain, and leave me alone.”
And he flung himself miserably into his chair, leaning forward with his head on his hands, and apparently indifferent whether I stayed or went.
I went, leaving him thus. And the memory of him sitting there haunted me all that night and for weeks to come.
When, next day, the news went round that Tempest had escaped expulsion, the general delight was tempered with amazement at the rumour which accompanied it, that he owed his escape to Crofter. No one but Crofter himself could have put the latter story into circulation, and to any one knowing the two seniors as well as I did, it was obvious that what had completed the humiliation of one had been the crowning triumph of the other.
Crofter could not have avenged himself for the insults of the term more effectively; and Tempest’s proud nature could not have suffered a bitterer wound than to know that he had been put under an obligation in spite of himself, and without the possibility of preventing it, by his worst enemy.