"Of course you will, for the sake of Low Heath. Next term we'll go ahead, and the fellows will owe you more than they think."

Here, by an odd chance, just as we came to the school gate, we met Mr Jarman and Crofter walking out in deep confabulation.

I do not know if they saw us. If they did, they pretended not to have done so, and walked on, leaving us to proceed.

"Do you see that?" said Tempest.

"Rather. I know what it means too. It's an extra reason why you should swallow your pride for once, in order to sell them. I tell you they are probably counting on your sticking out, and nothing would disappoint them more."

"Well, old chap," said Tempest, as we came to our door, "it's not your fault if I don't do it. I know you're right, but--"

"But it's a jolly bitter pill, and I wish I could swallow it for you.

Good night."

I had the sense for once to keep what I had heard to myself, and retired to bed more hopeful that all would turn out right than I had been for a day or two.

The next morning I was wandering about, aloof from my comrades, in the quadrangle, waiting for the bell to ring for first school, when Marple, the town bookseller, a tradesman familiar to most Low Heathens, accosted me. He was evidently not at home in the school precincts, and, with my usual modesty, I felt he had come to the right source for information.

"Do you belong to Mr Sharpe's house, young gentleman?" said he, with a respectful nod which quite captivated me.

"Yes. Who do you want?"

"I want to see Mr Tempest very particular."

"Oh, he's up in his room. Wait a bit till the bell rings, and he'll come out."

So Mr Marple and I stopped and chatted about the holidays, which were to begin in a day or two, and the football matches and the river.

"You know Mr Tempest pretty well?" said he.

"Rather; I'm his f.a.g, you know."

"A nice gentleman, I fancy. Pretty well off, eh?"

"Oh no. He's a swell, but his people are poor, I know."

"Oh, indeed. Not likely to buy much in my way, eh?"

"Rather not. He's hard up as it is. It's not much good your trying to sell him anything," said I, remembering the rumour about my friend's indebtedness, and anxious to screen him from further debt.

"Ah, indeed--he's in debt, is he--all round?"

"How do you know that?" said I, bristling up. "I don't expect he owes you anything."

Mr Marple laughed.

"That's just what he does; that's why I've stepped over. I don't like showing young gents up, but--"

"Look here," cried I aghast, "for mercy's sake, don't show him up, Marple! It's as likely as not he's to be expelled as it is; this would finish him up."

"If he's likely to be expelled, all the more reason I should get my money before he goes."

"How much is it?" I gasped.

"A matter of two pounds," said the tradesman.

"Look here," said I, "I'll promise you shall be paid. Wait till the last day of the term, do, Marple."

Mr Marple stared at me. The security I fear was not good enough for him. On the other hand, he probably knew that it would not be good for trade if he were to show up a "Low Heathen."

He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to me. It contained Tempest's bill for sundry stationery, magazines, books, postage stamps, and so on; headed "Fourth and final application." The envelope itself was addressed, "Dr England, with W. Marple's respectful compliments."

The bell rang just then, and I was so anxious to get Marple off the scene that I wildly promised anything to be rid of him, and was finally left, just in time, to meet Tempest unconsciously strolling across the quadrangle on his way to keep his appointment with the doctor.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

DEEPEST DEPTHS.

We did not see Tempest again till the afternoon. As we most of us surmised, he was relieving his feelings after his interview with the doctor by a spin on the river.

How, I wondered, had the interview gone? Had he agreed to the humiliating condition of apologising to Mr Jarman, or had his pride been too much for him after all? If so, this was probably his last spin on the river.

Had our house been Selkirk's, there would, no doubt, have been wagers on the event. As it was, the Philosophers contented themselves with bickering. The general impression seemed to be that he had refused to surrender. That being so, the game was up--there was no object in keeping up appearances.

A spirit of defiance seemed to get hold of us. We deliberately sat on the fence of the prohibited playing fields, in the hope that Mr Jarman or some one would see us. Trimble even went to the length of crossing it at one corner.

What made it more trying was the conduct of the day boys, who, with an acuteness which did them credit, seemed to have discovered our delicate situation, and resolved to make the most of it.

They paraded the field about twenty yards from our fence, jeering at us openly, and daring us to set foot on the turf.

"Look at them," said one, "hung up like a lot of washing on the palings.

We'll make them cut. Let's have a scientific meeting. That'll clear them out."

Whereupon the Urbans ranged themselves on the gra.s.s under our noses, and called upon Mr Flitwick to address them on the "Treatment of Lunatics."

This was too much. We were few in number, and the palings were hard and uncomfortable. But if they thought they were going to frighten us away by this demonstration, they were mistaken.

Langrish, in a loud voice, called out "Chair," whereupon I, taking the cue, and a.s.suming that the Philosophers were in congress, called upon Mr Trimble to favour us with his oration on "Mud."

"Oh, all serene," said Trimble, who till that moment had had as little notion of his subject as I had had. "Mud is dirty lumps of stuff lying about on the gra.s.s, like what you see in front of you. It has neither brains nor sense. It's a vile thing to look at, and worse to touch. If you--"

"--If you," here broke in Mr Flitwick, "want to see what lunatics really are, you should look on the palings of some of our school playing fields. If you happen to see a row of squinney-eyed, ill-dressed mules, with large boots and turn-up noses, and afraid of their lives to move off where they are, those are the prize lunatics. I have pleasure in exhibiting a few choice specimens collected from various sources. The one thing--"

"--The one thing about mud is, it daren't come within reach of you,"

continued Trimble, getting a little random in his statements, "for fear of getting one in the eye. If you want a sample--"

"--There's one," shouted Flitwick, interrupting our orator with a fragment of mother earth in his face.