To his surprise Dr Plummer did not strike, but returned quietly to his desk.
“Brown,” said he, “you may go. Tell the housekeeper to pack your box in time for the early train to-morrow.”
“What!” exclaimed poor old Dick, fairly electrified into speech; “am I expelled, sir?”
“You will be unless you speak at once. I give you a last chance.”
Dicky looked up at the doctor, then down at the floor. I knew the struggle in his mind: the thought of his people at home, of the disgrace of being expelled, of the suspicions he would leave behind. Then I could see him steal a doubtful glance at the Dux and at me, and then pass his eye along the rows of faces eagerly waiting for his decision.
Then he held up his head, and I knew dear old Dicky was as sound as a bell. No one had the right to make him turn sneak—and no one should do it! “I’ll go and pack,” said he quietly, and turned to the door.
Neither the Dux nor I saw the last of poor Dicky Brown at Dangerfield. We were otherwise engaged when he departed home in a four-wheeled cab in charge of Mr Ramsbottom that evening. We were, in point of fact, in durance vile ourselves, with every prospect of speedily requiring the services of two more four-wheeled cabmen on our own accounts.
The Dux’s fury at Dicky’s summary expulsion had been quite a surprise even to me.
“It’s a shame,” he had shouted as the door closed; “a caddish shame!”
“Who said that?” asked Dr Plummer.