So we ploughed through the mud under the willows, and I let out on Dicky all that was in my heart. I’m sure he thought it a lot of bosh, but he was too kind to say so, and hung on to my arm, and never once contradicted me when I called myself a fool.
“You have rotted it a bit,” remarked he, when the story was complete. “Never mind, old chap, it can’t be helped. You’ll worry through all right.”
This was true comfort. If Dicky had been a prig like me, he would have tried to talk to me like a father, and driven me crazy. It made all the difference that he understood me, and yet believed in me a little.
“It strikes me,” said he, with refreshing candour, “you fancy yourself a bit too much, Tommy. I’d advise you to lie low a bit, and it will all come round.”
“That’s just exactly what Tempest said to me the first day of term,” said I, with a groan.
“There you are,” said he; “bless you, you’re not going to get done over one wretched term, are you? I wouldn’t if I were you.”
“But all the chaps are down on me.”
“What do you care?” said he, with a snort. “Who cares twopence about the lot of them—chaps like them too? You’re a cut better than that lot, I fancy—ought to be, anyhow.”
What balm it all was to my wounds! What miles of mud we ploughed through that afternoon! and how, as the water gradually leaked into my boots, my heart rose out of them, and got back somehow to its proper place, and enabled me to look at things in their proper light. I think Dicky, little as he knew it, was sent by God to help me pull myself together, and I shall always think better of him for his blunt, genuine encouragement that day.
On our way back he pulled up at Redwood’s door.