The ordinary “Sharper” could hardly be expected to trouble himself about questions of motive. It was sufficient for him that his hero was saved, and that the credit of the popular act which saved him belonged to Crofter.
Consequently both were cheered equally when they appeared in public, and of the two Crofter accepted his popularity with a far better grace than his mortified adversary.
But it was all very miserable to me as I slunk home that afternoon in the train. All the hopes of the wonderful term had been disappointed. I was a recognised dunce and idler at Low Heath. I had lost my best friend and sold myself to his enemy. My self-respect was at a low ebb. I knew that in a post or two would come a report which would bring tears to my mother’s eyes, and cause my guardian to grunt and say, “I expected as much.” The worst of it was, I could not get it out of my head yet that I was rather a fine young fellow if only people knew it, and that my misfortunes were more to blame for the failure of the term than my faults.
To my relief a letter came early in the holidays from Dicky Brown’s people, asking me to spend the last two weeks with them, I jumped at it, for in my present miserable frame of mind even home was dismal.
But when I found myself back at Low Heath, installed in Dicky’s quiet little family circle, I was almost sorry I had come. For Dicky was all high spirits and jubilation. He had won a form prize; everything had gone swimmingly for him. The Urbans looked up to him; the head master had patted him on the back; the Redwoods had taken a fancy to him. No one thought of calling him by a feminine nickname.
“I think Low Heath’s a ripping place,” said he, as we strolled past the gate of the empty quadrangle in one of our holiday rambles. “I’m jolly glad we got kicked out of Dangerfield, ain’t you?”
“Middling,” said I; “the fact is, Dicky, you may as well know it, but I’m rather sick of this place.”
“Hullo!” said he, looking at me, “why, I thought you were having such a high old time.”
“I—I’ve come a bit of a howler, Dicky;” here I gulped ominously, much to Dicky’s concern. “I’ve fooled things rather, you know.” I was in for my confession now, and gave the penitent horse his head. “I’m jolly miserable, Dicky, that’s all about it, and wish I was dead, don’t you know, and that sort of thing.”
“What’s up, old chappie?” said Dicky, taking my arm, and evidently in a fright lest I should compromise myself by breaking down on the spot. “Come down by the willows; it’s rather muddy, but it’s quieter.”