“But you’re against Redwood for the Mile,” said I.
“That’s no reason why I shouldn’t give him a cup of tea, is it, you young mule?”
The way he said it, and the grip of his hand on my arm, satisfied me that all was square once more between me and my dear old Dux.
Chapter Twenty Five.
A Dead Heat.
The few weeks during which I had been laid up had witnessed some curious changes in Low Heath—at least, they seemed curious to me, dropping, as I did, suddenly into them.
First of all, we poor “Sharpers” were all burnt out. The faggery was no more, nor was the hall, or the dormitory. We were being put up temporarily in a town house just outside the school gates, a good deal to the wrath of some of our number, who felt it was putting them down to the level of the day boys. However, the sight of the scaffolding round our old quarters, and the cheery clink of the trowel, reminded us that out exile was not for long, and that in a brand-new faggery, on brand-new chairs, and round a brand-new table, we should shortly resume our pleasant discussions on the deepest questions with which the human mind can occupy itself.
Somehow, apart from the fire, things weren’t going exactly as I had left them. Pridgin was reported to be working hard—a most alarming symptom. It was commonly surmised that he could not stand playing second or third fiddle to Crofter; and as Tempest was apparently content to be second, Pridgin had come to the painful conclusion that the only comfortable place for him in Sharpe’s was Number One. It was extremely inconvenient all round; for it made it necessary for Crofter to bestir himself, while of course it seemed to threaten Tempest’s chance of recovering his place.