“The dirty blackguard,” said Tom; “by Jove he ought to be cut. He will be cut, won't he? You don't mean that he really did offer him the money?”
“I do,” said Hardy, “and the poor little fellow came here after hall to ask me what he should do with tears in his eyes.”
“Chanter ought to be horsewhipped in quad,” said Tom. “I will go and call on Smith directly. What did you do?”
“Why, as soon as I could master myself enough not to lay hands on him,” said Hardy, “I went across to his rooms where he was entertaining a select party, and just gave him his choice between writing an abject apology then and there to my dictation, or having the whole business laid before the principal to-morrow morning. He chose the former alternative, and I made him write such a letter as I don't think he will forget in a hurry.”
“That's good,” said Tom; “but he ought to have been horsewhipped too. It makes one's fingers itch to think of it. However, Smith's all right now.”
“All right!” said Hardy, bitterly. “I don't know what you call 'all right.' Probably the boy's self-respect is hurt for life. You can't salve over this sort of thing with an apology-plaster.”
“Well, I hope it isn't so bad as that,” said Tom.
“Wait till you've tried it yourself,” said Hardy, “I'll tell you what it is; one or two things of this sort—and I've seen many more than that in my time—sink down into you, and leave marks like a red-hot iron.”
“But, Hardy, now, really, did you ever know a bribe offered before?” said Tom.
Hardy thought for a moment. “No,” said he, “I can't say that I have; but things as bad, or nearly as bad, often.” He paused a minute, and then went on; “I tell you, if it were not for my dear old father, who would break his heart over it, I would cut the whole concern to-morrow. I've been near doing it twenty times, and enlisting in a good regiment.”