Follow My leader Part 61

"Nonsense! come on. You're out of the hunt; ten minutes won't make any difference."

Of course they yielded, and enjoyed a sumptuous lunch of cold meat and bread and cheese, which made new men of them. It took all their good manners to curb their attentions to the joint; and their chatty host spun out the repast with such stories of his own school days, that the ten minutes grew to fully half an hour before they could get away.

Before they did so d.i.c.k, who for a quarter of an hour previously had been exhibiting signs of agitation and inward debate, contrived to astonish both the "Firm," and his host.

"We saw you at Tom White's trial the other day, sir," said he, abruptly, at the close of one of the Squire's stories.

"Bless my soul! were you there? Why, of course--all three of you; I saw you. They didn't let the youngsters do that sort of thing in my day."

"We were rather interested about White, you know," said d.i.c.k, nervously.

"A good-for-nothing vagabond he is!" said the very unprofessional magistrate.

"We rather hope," said d.i.c.k, turning very red, "he'll get let off."

"Eh? what? Do you know, you young scamp, I can-- So you want him let off, do you? How's that?"

"Because he didn't take the boat away," said d.i.c.k, avoiding the horror- struck eyes of his "Firm."

"We--that is I--let it go."

"What do you say?" said the Squire, putting down his knife and fork and sitting back in his chair.

Whereupon d.i.c.k, as much to stave off the expected storm as to justify himself, proceeded to give a true, though agitated, story of his and Georgie's adventures on the day of the Grandcourt match, appealing to Georgie at every stage in the narration to corroborate him. Which Georgie did, almost noisily.

The magistrate heard it all out in silence, with a face gradually becoming serious.

"Do you know what you can get for doing it?" he asked.

d.i.c.k's face grew graver and graver.

"Shall we be transported?" he asked, with a quaver in his voice.

The magistrate took a hurried gulp from the tumbler before him.

"You've put me in a fix, my man. You'd no business to get round me to prevent me doing my duty."

"I really didn't mean to do that," put in d.i.c.k.

"No--we wouldn't do such a thing," said Georgie.

"Well, never mind that. Whatever Tom White did to you, you'd no right to do what you did. You've put me in a fix, I say. Take my advice and write to your father, and tell him all about it, and get him to come down. If Tom White's partners and the p.a.w.nbroker get their money, they may stop the case, and there'll be an end of it. If they don't, Tom must take his chance. Dear, dear, things have changed in Templeton since my day. Confound it, I wish the Harriers would choose some other run! A nice fix I'm in, to be sure--young rascals!"

Late that evening a crowd a.s.sembled in the Quadrangle of Templeton. The hunt had been in three hours ago, and all the hounds but three had turned up and gone to their kennels. It was to welcome the remaining three that the crowd was a.s.sembled. They had already been signalled from the beach, and the faint hum in the High Street told that they had already got into their last run.

Nearer and louder grew the sound, till the hum became a shout, and the shout a roar, as through the great gate of Templeton three small travel- stained figures trotted gamely into the Quad, with elbows down and heads up.

They hardly seemed to hear the cheers or notice the crowd, but kept their faces anxiously towards where Cresswell--book in hand--stood at the door of Westover's to receive them.

"Have you run right through?" he asked as they came up.

"Yes, every step," gasped d.i.c.k.

Five minutes later, the "Firm" was in bed and fast asleep.

And two days later, when the revised list of candidates eligible for election to the "Select Sociables" was displayed on the library door, it included the names of Richardson, Heathcote, and Coote.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOW THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES STILL HANGS OVER OUR HEROES.

Dear Father,--Please come down here as soon as you can. We're in a regular row. I'm awfully afraid fifty pounds will not quite cover it.

Please try and come by the next train as the case comes on on Sat.u.r.day, and there's not much time. We saw the magistrate yesterday, and made a clean breast. I hope they won't transport us. He was very jolly helping us find the scent, and gave us a stunning lunch. We ran the big hunt right through, and are pretty sure to get our names on the "Sociables" list. I wish you and mother could have seen the view on the top of Welkin Beacon. The awkward thing is that Tom White may get transported instead of us, and it would be jolly if you could come and get him off. Coote wasn't in it, but he's backing us up. How is Tike? I hope they wash him regularly. If I'm not transported, I shall be home in eight weeks and three days and will take him out for walks.

Love to mother, in which all join,--Your affectionate son, Basil.

P.S.--If you come, don't take Fegan's cab--he's a cheat. Old White will drive you cheap. He's Tom's father. Georgie sends his love.

The reader may imagine, if he can, the consternation with which Mr and Mrs Richardson read this loving epistle at breakfast on the Friday morning following the great hunt.

They gazed at one another with countenances full of horror and terror, like people suddenly brought face to face with a great calamity. At length Mr Richardson said:--

"Where's the Bradshaw, Jane?"

"Oh, the train goes in half an hour. You have just time to catch it.

Do go quickly. My poor, poor boy!"

The father groaned; and in another five minutes he was on his way to the station.

That morning, while school was in full swing, the porter entered the third cla.s.s room with a telegram in his hand, which he took straight to the master.

"Richardson," said the master, "this is for you."

d.i.c.k, who was at the moment engaged in drawing a circle on his Euclid cover with a pencil and a piece of string, much to the admiration of his neighbours, jumped up as if he had been shot, and with perturbed face went up to receive the missive.

He tore it open, and, as he glanced at its contents, his anxious face relaxed into a complacent grin.

"From G. Richardson, London. I shall reach Templeton at 3:5 this afternoon. Meet me, if you can."

"Huzzah, Georgie!" said he, as he returned to his seat. "Father's coming down by the 3:5. Let's all go and meet him."

The "Firm" said they would, and, accordingly, that afternoon after dinner the trio sallied forth in great spirits and good-humour to give the anxious father a reception.

With the easy memory of youth, they forgot all about the probable object of his visit; or, if they remembered it, it was with a sort of pa.s.sing feeling of relief that the Tom White "row" was now as good as over--at any rate, as far as they were concerned.