the complete failure of the first number of their rooke's house rag gave dick and roger rather a wretched night. but with the morning-time there came a ray of hope.
luke harwood brought in a whole sheaf of subscriptions which he had voluntarily collected from holbeck's house. there was a fine spirit of sportsmanship about his unsought assistance, which almost betrayed the grateful captain into a display of emotion. o'er roger cayton's head it heaped coals of fire indeed!
"'pon my word, harwood, you're real jannock," dick managed to stammer. "what hours you must have spent on this collecting stunt! it—it's downright brickish of you."
"oh, cut that out," said harwood, with a laugh. "to be honest, it was a jolly good excuse for dodging 'prep.'. i didn't feel like swotting last night."
"but i say, you know, you shame me. i never thought of doing anything like this for you, harwood!"
"the cases don't run on all fours, old man. i took over the foxonian as a going concern. generations of foxonians had edited it before me. it was almost as old and venerable as nelson's monument. you had competition to face—your rag was an infant in arms. i love rivalry—it stimulates me. let nothing discourage you, old boy—keep right on making each number better than the last."
he faded away with his customary grace, leaving behind him a completely captivated dick and a non-plussed and sour-visaged roger.
"how now, stormy petrel!" cried dick. "it's amusing to what extremes you carry your prejudice against luke harwood, roger. bears you no malice whatever for the hard knocks you gave him in your 'sauce for the gander' column. now, roger, knuckle under, old man! he's our good samaritan."
"who appointed him our collector, anyway?" said roger. "sly impertinence, i call it. well," he added, relenting at sight of dick's crestfallen face, "perhaps i am rather a graceless churl to-night. i'll put this bagful of money safely away in the locker, and then start raking the subscriptions in myself before some other voluntary helper queers my pitch!"
harwood's "sly impertinence" had gingered roger up, at any rate. by nightfall he had wheedled "subs" out of the majority of rooke's house, and when they visited moston with "copy" for the second number of the rag, they carried with them funds ample enough to defray the cost of publication for months ahead.
"gentlemen, do you mind holdin' over the matter of payment a week or two?" said the manager of the moston fairtype press, almost plaintively. "i'm just now neck-deep in arrears of work—never a spare moment for book-keepin' do i get."
"oh, but we'd rather pay, really, and get it off our minds," said dick.
"then we shall know exactly where we stand," roger supplemented.
the manager spread out his ink-stained hands imploringly.
"it's all right, mr. forge—carry on, mr. cayton. i know you both—we can trust one another. i'll make out a bill to-morrow and you can pay me next time you're in town. i'd much rather!"
so the co-editors went away again with the money in their pockets, excusably touched by this further proof of confidence in their honesty. number two of the rag came out in all its glory, irreproachably printed on fine-quality paper, and so far they hadn't been permitted to pay a farthing towards its cost! it seemed almost like philanthropy.
it was gratifying, too, to see how much better the second issue went down than the first had done. probably because they had paid for it this time, the boys did not chuck it about, and it appeared to be read with even closer attention than was the monthly foxonian, brought out simultaneously. in truth, the rival papers lashed out at each other, though with perfect fairness, and the contents of both were voted "particularly spicy".
"roger, old man, shake!" cried dick, after tea. "this is my life's happiest day, i really think. thanks, as much as anything, to your pungent 'sauce for the gander', we are in this pleasant position—— now, kid, why are you nosing about here? clear off!"
he broke into his congratulatory speech to turn irritably on a flabby-faced, unhealthily fat youngster, who had had the amazing cheek to draw his attention by plucking at his sleeve.
"oh, please, forge, i'd rather not go until i've spoken to you privately," the junior said.
"privately! well, of all the nerve! you can say anything you've got to say in front of my friend here, and look slippery, too. doubt if i ought to let you speak at all—butting into our conversation like that."
"sorry, forge, but i don't think you'll mind when i've told you everything. i've come to you for protection."
"protection! from me? i'm honoured—overwhelmed! take a square look at this young genius, roger. is he quite 'all there', do you consider?"
"nothing balmy about me, forge," said the youngster, with self-possession. "i merely called to lay a complaint——"
"well, don't lay it as heavily as a foundation-stone," interrupted dick. "that'll do for the first part of your speech, youngster. hurry up with the second. i'll give you a couple of minutes."
he took out his watch.
"i'm mawdster, from holbeck's house—the boy who stuck up for the rooke's house rag when all my chums were slating it."
"ah, to be sure!" said roger. "one of the squirms, and looks it, too."
the junior gave roger a quick glance which seemed to say, "it's none of your business, anyhow." then he made his moan.
"ever since that day, forge, i've caught it hot from both sides—my own and robin hood's. and all because i said your mag. was better got-up than the foxonian."
dick and roger exchanged half-amused glances. then dick looked back at his watch.
"one minute," he chuckled. "any more of this, kid?"
"a lot, forge! they blackguard me all the time—i've a dog's life between the two gangs—and yesterday they held my head down ever so long in the fountain."
"did you report that to your prefect?"
"yes—to harwood. but he only laughed and said it would save me the trouble of washing myself—or some such rot. i know why he did nothing—because he'd heard i'd been running the foxonian down and praising your rag, forge. he'll always have his knife into me for that."
"oh, rather!" said the captain, ironically. "quite a natural assumption that harwood will lie awake o' nights wondering how to get even with you. don't be an idiot, young mudster."
"mawdster, if you please, forge," the junior corrected, not too respectfully.
"mawdster, then! don't snap! i think i understand you now. you belong to holbeck's house, whose prefect snubs you. then, because you once praised my magazine, you expect me to slip across and break a stick over the backs of a score of youngsters who are ragging you. if there's a more brazen little bounder in the whole of foxenby, i've yet to hear of him. quit!"
"but please, forge——"
"quit, you little ass!" put in roger. "don't you know how hard the captain can kick?"
the flabby youth, realizing that his audacious appeal had failed, got quickly out of the range of dick's boot. but he paused long enough to get in a parting shot—a stinger, too.
"after all," he said, "it's putrid to be bullied for praising the contents of a magazine, when all you really fancied was the paper and print!"
both laughed ruefully at this when mawdster had vanished.
"that's a backhander for us, straight between the eyes," said roger.
"rather!" dick agreed. "the oily maggot! i only wish i'd taken your tip, roger, and driven my uninjured foot into his fat carcase!"
