loving foxenby with all his heart, as one who had been far happier there than at home, dick forge had always hitherto come back to it in joyful expectation of pleasant days in store.
as its captain he had striven hard, particularly on the athletic side, to keep it well in the picture, and there was evidence of his zeal in the hall, where the county schools' cricket-shield now hung. moreover, he had steered the socker team into the final of the football cup, and there was still a chance of winning that and bringing off the double event.
never had a winter term started with greater possibilities, yet dick entered upon it with leaden feet and downcast spirits. it appeared to him that, unless something approaching a miracle happened in less than a fortnight, a storm would burst over his head that he would be unable to weather. he would have to pack up stealthily and go.
with frank or half-concealed curiosity everybody stared at his bruised face and half-closed optic. old man wykeham, in discussing with him the prospects of the term, seemed to have eyes for nothing other than those scars of battle; mr. rooke was even more inquisitive, and made no bones about asking him the reason of it.
"i'd rather not say, sir, if you don't mind," dick answered.
how long, he wondered, would the story of yesterday's encounter be in making its way to foxenby? by anyone mischievously disposed towards him, it might so easily be described as "a pothouse brawl".
his fears in this direction were only too well grounded. lyon, the cup-team's doughty full-back, speedily brushed away his last hope that the affair might never reach the school.
"i say, forge, old man, somebody's set a nasty tale about concerning you," said the full-back anxiously.
"why, what's being said?" dick inquired, fearing the worst.
"oh, some tin-pot yarn about you picking a quarrel with a yokel in moston—a stupid clown who couldn't fight for toffee. the impression is that you were showing off your superior pugilistic skill, and that you sort of butchered this unscientific chawbacon to make a moston holiday. awful rot, of course, but what did actually happen?"
dick groaned in spirit. was he never to enjoy a minute's freedom from malice? there could be no doubt about it—lyon was looking hard and pointedly at his battered and still-swollen face, and it was that close scrutiny which proved dick's undoing. with all his nerves on edge he lost his temper.
"well, lyon, if you like to believe lots of confounded tosh, it's your own affair entirely," he burst out. "let the old woman's tale go round the school. i shall take no trouble to contradict it!"
he left lyon gasping there, and went off in search of the only person from whom he seemed likely to gain any sympathy—roger cayton, to wit. but roger had not yet arrived, nor was there any sign that his baggage had come on in front of him.
the absence of the prefect of rooke's house on the first day of a new term was a matter of some concern, and dick at once reported it to mr. rooke.
"i was just coming to see you about that very matter, forge," the housemaster said. "cayton's father has written to say that the poor lad is down with cerebral inflammation."
"ill!" exclaimed dick, blankly.
"rather seriously, i fear. over-study during the holidays, his father says. been working hard, unknown to the rest of the family, when he ought to have been in bed. trying to make sure of his varsity scholarship, no doubt."
"do—do you think i could get leave to go and see him, sir?" stammered dick, pale of face and visibly distressed.
"no use if you could, forge. they wouldn't admit you to a delirious patient. better wait and hope for the best. i'll let you know the bulletins as they arrive, or you can write for information yourself."
calamity on calamities! trouble heaped on trouble, pressed down and brimming over. deprived of the moral support of his trustiest friend, dick had now to face his editorial dilemma entirely alone, with the added anguish of knowing that roger might succumb to the fever and be for ever lost to him.
no shame to the captain of foxenby that he locked himself in his study—their study—that night, and, with his head buried in his-arms, gave way to silent sobbing. the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune were coming too fast about his ears—it was more than human endurance could be expected to withstand!
he was soon bitterly angry with himself for this outburst of grief. he, the captain of foxenby, blubbering like a first form kid with the toothache! a smile must be pumped up from somewhere for that last walk along the dormitories—poor old roger's work if he had been there. it must never be said that foxenby's captain went to bed, on the first night of the term, with a countenance as long as a fiddle.
pride brought the smile, and sheer physical weariness—the reaction of yesterday's fight—the sleep. and in the morning his damaged eye was heaps better, and the marks of juddy's fist were far less noticeable. so dick set about his duties with philosophical resignation, determined to look facts in the face, intent on wearing a mask of nonchalance which would deceive all but the shrewdest boys around him.
one of his first ordeals was to eat humble-pie over the rooke's house rag. with many pen-scratchings and painful recommencements, he prepared and pinned on the notice-board the following announcement:—
the rooke's house rag
subscribers to the above magazine are notified that, pending the recovery of the funds lost in the burglary last term, the publication of the rag has been temporarily suspended. as soon as arrangements can be made its issue will certainly be renewed. in the meantime, any subscriber who desires the return of his unexpired subscription may receive it on application to the undersigned,
richard forge,
editor.
"the flaw in that literary 'wangle'," thought dick, as he gazed ruefully at the foolscap sheet, "is the rash promise to refund unexpired subscriptions. if many of the foxes take advantage of that, i shall be cleaned out of 'tin' for the rest of the term."
he walked off sharply as though from an unclean thing. had he turned his head, he would have seen that luke harwood was the first to read his public confession of failure. and he might have had some of his laudable faith in human nature torn from him could he have observed the self-satisfied smirk on the face of the foxonian's editor. "i told him so—i knew it," was the verbal key to that smug expression.
luke harwood had reason to feel at peace with all the world to-day. after long waiting, things were coming his way at last. this humble suspension of the rag would not be exactly popular with those who had subscribed to it. they would laugh ironically at the clause "pending the recovery of the funds lost". how very likely that the burglars, conscience-stricken, were saving up stolen money for an opportunity of returning it! then there was that ugly affair at the public-house—the fight with the ignorant yokel. very severe things were being said about that in school. if any other fox had been guilty of a vulgar scrap in such squalid surroundings, would not forge himself, as captain, have reported the offender to the head? then, the school was asking, why did not he report himself?
oh, truly, reflected luke, when the annual election of foxenby's captain took place at easter, it would not be altogether such a walk-over for dick forge as it had been in the two previous years!
during the rest of that miserable week, better news of roger provided the only relief to the background of dull misery. roger, his father wrote to say, had made a wonderful recovery, and was already itching to get back to school. such good tidings served to sustain dick's pluck as he saw, on almost every side, the growing animosity towards him. it was suspicious, too, that nobody had asked for a return of a subscription to the rag. was that also a conspiracy against him—a sort of half-veiled boycott? even lyon, that reliable old football warhorse, avoided him whenever possible. forge was distinctly in the school's black books this term.
feeling almost an outcast, dick grew morose and silent, and it was with difficulty that he spoke civilly to robin arkness, leader of the merry men, when that bland young gentleman accosted him outside his study door.
"what d'ye want, youngster?" he asked irritably. "sing out, quick; i'm busy just now."
the quite unexpected answer took him, metaphorically speaking, off his feet.
"oh, please, forge, will you sign your name in my autograph album?" asked robin, producing from behind his back an oblong book in a somewhat grubby, red-leather binding.
"why, kid, what's the game? no nonsense, now? i've a pretty rough way of dealing with juniors who try to pull my leg."
"oh, honour bright, forge, i want your autograph ever so much," declared robin with the utmost gravity. "put it here, please, on the page i keep for footballers and boxers."
"boxers! what are you driving at, you little monkey? you are trying to pull my leg, after all!"
"indeed, no, forge! do sign. there, underneath the autograph of the light-weight champion of the world."
dick found himself breathing rather fast as he looked from robin to the book, and from the book back to robin again.
"though you don't seem to realize it, younker, this is rather a tender subject for me," he said at last, quietly. "you say you want me to sign your book amongst the footballers and boxers! footballer i may be, in a measure, but why boxer?"
"because you beat big juddy stockgill to a frazzle on the anvil inn bowling-green," robin replied, almost reverently.
dick gasped. this was a newer and altogether pleasanter version of the episode, anyhow!
"but that's not what the school thinks, kid. foxenby's opinion is that, for swank, i selected a nice, fat, juicy victim, and used him as a punching-ball. have you heard a different story?"
"no, forge. but one of the—that is, somebody said they'd seen it was juddy stockgill you walloped, and i know what a big brute he is, 'cos my uncle had a farm next to the one where juddy works. and he must have been doing something rotten, or you wouldn't have struck him, forge."
here was a golden opportunity to put things right, and dick, after slightly hesitating, took it.
"juddy and his choice associates were knocking fluffy jim about rather badly," he said. "i chipped in because of that, kid, and not for personal glory. you believe me, i suppose?"
"up to the hilt, forge! you're a 'white man'. sign my book, please, so's i can 'hop' it back to 'prep'."
with a cheerier laugh than he had uttered for weeks, dick did himself the unsought honour of placing his signature beneath that of the world's light-weight boxing champion, and robin cleared off contentedly.
"never say die, after all," dick told himself, more hopefully. "with robin hood and his merry men behind me, and roger burning to get back to my side, i think i can discern a tiny rift in the clouds at last!"
