Stanley began to understand. It was not from any kindly motive Newall had spoken up for him that morning. The bitterness of his words now told him that, and the vindictiveness in his eyes spoke even plainer than speech. Paul had been deceived, and he had been deceived. Why had he demeaned himself by asking a fellow like Newall to shake hands with him?

He ought to have known better from past experience.

"You understand?" went on Newall in the same bitter tone. "Oh, yes, I see you do. You struck me a blow. The marks of it are still here, you see"--pointing to his lip, which was discoloured and cut. "I'm glad of it. It kept me awake last night, thinking of you. And when I looked at myself in the gla.s.s this morning, I thought of you again. It's nice to have a memento of your friends, don't you think so?"

Stanley did not answer. What answer was possible to these mocking jibes?

Paul was silent, too. All power of speech seemed taken from him.

"Well, I mean having that blow back--the cowardly blow you gave me over Percival's shoulder. I could give it to you now"--his fist was clenched as though he would have dearly liked to make good his words--"but that would only mean that one or the other would be sent to the den from which I've just rescued you. That would be idiotic and make matters worse."

"You mean to say that you don't wish to end the quarrel between us. You wish to fight it out to the bitter end?" demanded Stanley, at last finding voice.

"You've got it!" came the slow, firm answer--"to the bitter end!"

CHAPTER XI

FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FORM

Paul was grieved at the turn things had taken. Just at the moment when he thought the quarrel ended it had burst out again in a deadlier form.

Stanley was very pale. His hands were clenched, as were the hands of Newall, and the pa.s.sion that distorted the one face was reflected in a lesser degree in the other. Hate never was, and never will be, a beautifier of the face. Like some subtle acid, it makes ugly lines. You will never see those lines in a beautiful or n.o.ble face, boys and girls.

So, if you want to keep from getting ugly, never hate.

Stanley was not only angry at the jibes of Newall, but angry at being led into a false position.

"I really had no wish to shake hands with you. I'm just as keen on fighting it out as you are," he began.

"One minute," interrupted Paul, stepping between them. "Let me have a word."

"You get out of it, and speak when you're spoken to!" cried Newall roughly. "It was through you coming between us that I got this beauty-spot yesterday"--pointing to his swollen lip. "Hadn't you poked your nose in where it wasn't wanted this wouldn't have happened, and I would have given a good account of myself."

"Sorry, and yet, come to think of it, I'm rather glad," answered Paul calmly, and not receding an inch from the position he had taken up.

"Glad! How do you mean?"

"Why, if it was through me you got that blow, your quarrel's with me, and not Moncrief. What's the use of trying to pay back to him what you owe to me?"

This was a novel way of looking at the dispute which had not occurred to Newall. As he was not ready with an answer, Paul went on:

"Besides, it was you who got me to speak to Moncrief on--excuse me saying so--false pretences. I thought you wanted to end the quarrel, to shake hands with him, and have done with it. It wasn't shaking hands you wanted, it seems, but clenched fists. I brought him here on a fool's errand; so the quarrel's mine, not his."

Stanley wished to step in again, but Paul gently yet firmly held his ground.

"I don't understand quite what you're driving at," said Newall. "It's a bit of a riddle; but if you want a thrashing as well as your friend, I dare say you can be obliged, but he comes first. Let him speak for himself. You can speak for yourself after. Now, Moncrief, no more shirking."

"It's my quarrel, I say," Paul answered in the same firm tone, and still keeping Stanley back. "Of course, you think different, and Moncrief here thinks different, so let's appeal to the Form."

"What's that?" cried Newall.

"Appeal to the Form. The fellows will see things clearer than we can."

The suggestion took Newall's breath away.

"You really mean it?"

"I really mean it."

Newall thought a moment. An appeal to the Form was altogether a new thing, but as he had not the slightest doubt as to which way they would decide, why should he not fall in with it?

"Does Moncrief agree to that?" Stanley nodded.

"Very well; let it be as you say, Percival--an appeal to the Form."

Paul, gratified that the quarrel had received a momentary check, was turning away with Stanley, when Parfitt, who had scarcely spoken throughout the scene, touched him on the shoulder.

"One minute. Just a little word with you."

He used in effect the same words as Paul had used when he stood between Newall and Stanley.

"Didn't you find it rather cold in the corridor last night--eh?" he asked, with a meaning smile.

Before Paul could answer, Parfitt followed in the footsteps of Newall.

Cold in the corridor last night? What did Parfitt mean? The instant Paul put to himself the question the answer came to him--Parfitt must have seen him leave the dormitory in the night. Was there anything else in his question? Yes, he felt sure there was something behind it.

"What was it, Paul? What did he want with you?" asked Stanley, coming up to him.

"He wanted to know whether I was in the corridor last night. I thought all the fellows were asleep, but he must have been awake, playing the spy."

"What of it? You're not the first fellow who's been in the corridor after 'lights out' by long chalks."

"It was not that--it was not being in the corridor, and Parfitt knowing it--troubles me. But there's something else--much worse--a beastly insinuation. Phew!"

The air seemed to have suddenly grown oppressive to Paul. He was no longer the calm, cool, self-reliant fellow who had stood between Stanley and Newall.

"Beastly insinuation! What?"

"You do not know what has happened. While I was with you in Dormitory X some one entered the big hall, broke open Weevil's desk, took out the Black Book, and tore from it the last five pages. That wasn't all. The culprit, whoever he was, took away some rough notes and plans Weevil had made on the subject of the prize essay, 'The Invasion of Great Britain.'

Well, do you see now what Parfitt means to insinuate? He means to insinuate that I am the culprit--that I was the one who broke open Mr.

Weevil's desk, tore the leaves from the Black Book, and stole the master's notes."

"No, no; it can't be!" exclaimed Stanley, aghast.

"It can be, and is; I am sure of it. That is the reason why Parfitt called me aside in such a mysterious manner."

"The mean cad! But supposing he does wish to insinuate such a dastardly thing, you've an easy answer. Are you forgetting what you said just now--you were with me last night in Dormitory X?"