The Hero of Garside School Part 44

"It's very kind of him. When you next see him say how obliged I am. It's nice to find people so thoughtful, though it may be a little late in the day."

Harry felt uncomfortable. He could detect the accent of bitterness underlying the words.

"Tell you what, Percival, I wish you and Stan were friends again, like you used to be. It's all through that beastly Beetle, Wyndham. I wish some one had stepped on him and squashed him first."

"I don't. I can admire a plucky fellow when I see one, even though he happens to be a Beetle."

Harry opened his eyes, and stared at Paul. Paul, annoyed at the second-hand message he had received from Stanley, and seeing the astonished expression on Harry's face, could not help adding: "Yes, I can admire pluck wherever I see it. I'm not quite sure whether Wyndham isn't worth half a dozen fellows here."

Harry stayed to hear no more. A Beetle worth half a dozen Gargoyles! It seemed rank treason to listen to it. Paul felt a savage thrill of delight in praising Wyndham and seeing the consternation it had caused in Harry.

"He will tell Stanley every word I have said. Getting his cousin to bring his mean, petty message. Didn't dream that anything so serious had happened, indeed! Pah!"

Alas! alas! The breach between the two former friends, instead of closing, was widening.

All the boys who had taken part in the raft incident were severely lectured by Mr. Weevil, and were debarred from the usual half-holidays during the next fortnight, as well as receiving a heavy number of lines to keep them busily occupied during the same period. Then the master went on to say:

"Percival has done a brave act. He went to the a.s.sistance of Hibbert in a moment of extreme peril. He placed his life in jeopardy to save him.

G.o.d grant that his act of bravery may not have been in vain!"

Mr. Weevil paused for an instant, with closed eyes, as though he were praying; then, when he opened them again, it seemed as though the incident and all connected with it had pa.s.sed from his mind, as, in a few cold words, he turned to the duties of the day.

Paul was more than gratified with this brief allusion to what he had done, but he could not help noticing that no reference was made by Mr.

Weevil to the part he had played in the rescue of Baldry and Plunger.

His whole thought seemed centred on Hibbert.

"Strange, his liking for the little chap," thought Paul.

It was as though the master were trying to make up to the frail, deformed boy for the neglect of others. And whenever Paul now thought of him, it was not as he remembered him on that night when he had peeped through the dormitory window, and had seen him talking to Israel Zuker, but as he had seen him kneeling by Hibbert's bed and babbling to him tenderly in an unknown tongue.

The next number of the _Gargoyle Record_ made various indirect references to the "Crusoe incident" in the editor's usual vein.

"Missing Link has turned up in the neighbourhood of the river--latest mania--punting and desert islands.... Our poet is much obliged for the response given to his appeal in our last issue. He was stuck, it will be remembered, for a rhyme to 'hunger,' and the rhyme was to be a name of some kind--bird, beast, or fish. Curious to say, all our correspondents have hit upon the same rhyme and name.

"Honour of the Fifth looking up a bit. Tarnished near sand-pit on Cranstead Common, it has just had a was.h.i.+ng in the river. Better for its bath, though not yet up to its former l.u.s.tre.

"The Fresher of the Third who was prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats has thought better of it.

Gave it up in order to get some experience of desert islands and punting in company with the aforesaid Missing Link. Experience disastrous and not likely to be repeated. Has since taken to stamp-collecting and ping-pong."

Then, among the usual notices of "Lost, stolen, or strayed," appeared the following:

"Pages from the Black Book still missing. Greatest loss of all--the old flag of the school. It waves over the school no longer. We have doffed the cap and bells, and gone into sackcloth and ashes. Our heart is heavy. We can smile no longer. We can only whistle one tune--the Dead March. Our heart will continue heavy. Our n.o.ble frontispiece will never beam again. Our lips will continue to warble the same melancholy tune until the old flag once more waves over Garside!"

Stripped of its note of bombast, this last paragraph echoed pretty accurately the feeling of the Garsiders at the loss of their flag. Their pride had been more sorely wounded even than it had been by the affair at the sand-pit. They had been flouted and dishonoured, and, though no proof was forthcoming, they felt sure that this insult had been placed upon them by their rivals--at St. Bede's.

Paul, meantime, had seen nothing of Hibbert since the day when his confession had been interrupted by Mr. Weevil. Frequently he recalled that strange scene--the boy's eerie-looking, pain-drawn face, the sad eyes fixed on his, the earnest voice, with its suppressed note of fear--as he began to unfold to him the secret that weighed upon his heart and conscience. It seemed so real, yet so unreal. The face looking up into his seemed real enough. It was the words he could not make sure of. Hibbert must have been wandering.

At any rate, he had not sent for him since the afternoon he had spoken such strange words, and that was nearly a week since.

"Of course, he was wandering, poor little chap, and has forgotten all about it by this time. I shall have a good laugh with him about it when he gets on his legs again," he told himself.

It was the sixth day after the accident on the river that Paul was informed by Bax that a visitor wished to see him in the visitors' room.

A visitor! Who could it be? Paul had very few visitors to see him.

"Ah, it's Mr. Moncrief; come at last in answer to my letter!" he thought, as he made his way to the room.

He was doomed to disappointment, however, for he found, on entering the room, that the visitor was a perfect stranger to him--a slim, wiry-figured gentleman, with a frock-coat b.u.t.toned closely over his chest, reddish-brown full beard, and gla.s.ses, through which a sharp pair of eyes at once went to Paul. Mr. Weevil was standing beside the visitor on the hearthrug.

"This is the lad I spoke of, Mr. Hibbert--Paul Percival."

The master briefly introduced them. Paul was at once interested. This gentleman with the tawny beard, and erect, alert, military bearing, was Hibbert's father.

"I have only recently returned to England, and have but just heard of the accident that has befallen my son," said Mr. Hibbert. "You saved his life. I was anxious not to go before I had thanked you."

He took Paul's hand in his, and pressed it hard. A boy less strong than Paul would have winced under that grip of steel.

"I'm glad to know Hibbert's father."

"And I'm glad to know Paul Percival. It isn't often one meets with a brave lad like you."

Again he gripped Paul's hand, and seemed to be regarding him as keenly as ever through his gla.s.ses to see if he stood his grip without flinching.

"I think you would find many who would do as I did--even here at Garside. It was my luck to be a good swimmer. And that luck--if I may call it luck--I owe to my father."

"Your father taught you, you mean."

"No," said Paul, shaking his head sadly; "I wish he had. He died when I was very young--when I could scarcely more than walk; but he was in the Navy, and it was by his wish that I was taught swimming. The saddest part is that he was drowned--drowned in saving another man's life."

"Really? That is sad. I hope that the man whom your father saved from a watery grave was as grateful to him as I am to you."

Paul was silent. He was thinking that if Mr. Hibbert's grat.i.tude were no greater than the grat.i.tude of the spy whom his father had saved from drowning it would not count for much.

"I trust this will not be our last meeting. When my son gets well again, I hope to see more of you. Perhaps we may see a few of the sights of London together, if your mother has no objection."

Paul thanked him and went out. He was glad that he had met Hibbert's father, though he was not a bit like the man he had pictured. He had somehow pictured him with something of the deformity that marked Hibbert, with the same sad, pathetic eyes; but they were as unlike as could be, except the voice. Hibbert's voice had somehow struck a familiar note when he first heard it. So did the father's. But there the resemblance began and ended.

That same evening Paul went to the sick-room as usual, and inquired after Hibbert. This time Mrs. Trounce beckoned him in.

"He's always asking after you, and it's cruel to keep you out," she whispered.

"Who wants to keep me out?"

"Mr. Weevil thinks it makes the lad feverish, but I asked the doctor expressly to-day, and he says it will do him good rather than harm to see any friend he asks for. Poor little dear, he hasn't many friends.

His father didn't seem to care over much for him, and his visit was a short one. He asked after you directly his father was gone. I've been obliged to deny him all this time, but I can't deny him any longer. He's dozing now. Step softly to the bed. Won't he be pleased when he wakes up and sees you! I've never had a boy on my hands who is half so good and patient as he is--I fear he is too patient, poor dear."

It was quite certain that during this time of trouble, Hibbert had found one more friend in Mrs. Trounce--the kind-hearted matron, who always tried to make the boys believe that she was a perfect virago with a heart of flint. Paul followed her on tiptoe to the bed and looked down on the sleeper. And as he looked, it seemed as though ice-cold fingers were clutching him by the heart-strings, so strangely still were the face and form of the little sleeper.