Riddell said nothing, and Bloomfield, seeing nothing could come of this altercation, left the room.
At the door, however, a thought struck him. Could that agitated scene between Riddell and young Wyndham, which he had interrupted by his arrival, have had anything to do with this mystery?
He recollected now what a state of distress both had been in; and, now he thought of it, surely he had heard Wyndham’s voice saying something in tones of very eager appeal at the moment the door was open. Besides Wyndham had been very “down” for a week past. Bloomfield had noticed it at the cricket practices; and more than one fellow had spoken of it in his hearing. He knew too how thick the boy was with the captain, and with what almost brotherly concern Riddell watched over all his interests; every one in Willoughby knew it.
Bloomfield was only a moderately clever youth, but he knew enough to put two and two together; and, as he stood there at the door, the state of the case flashed across his mind. He might get at the secret after all!
“You forget that other people can suspect besides you, Riddell,” he said, turning back. “Suppose I was to suspect that precious young friend of yours who stood blubbering here just now?”
It was well for the captain that his back was turned as Bloomfield said this, otherwise the least doubt as to the correctness of his guess would have been instantly dispelled.
The last strait in which Riddell found himself was worse than any that had gone before. For he could not deny, and to say nothing would be the same as assenting. The secret was out, and what could he do? The only thing seemed to be to appeal to Bloomfield’s generosity, to explain all to him, and to implore him, for a day or two at least, to keep sacred the confidence.
And yet — it was the old question — suppose he were wrong, and suppose after all Wyndham were not the culprit, what grievous wrong would he be doing him by admitting even his suspicion! He composed himself with an effort, and turning, replied, “Excuse me, Bloomfield, I’ve told you I can say nothing at present, and it is really useless to say any more about it.”
Bloomfield departed, perplexed and angry. His anger was partly because he could not help feeling that Riddell was in the right; and his perplexity was to know what to think of it all, and whether his guess about young Wyndham was near the mark or not.
“Well,” inquired Game, who with one or two of the most ardent Parretts was eagerly waiting his return. “Have you got it out of him?”
“No,” said Bloomfield, “he won’t tell me.”
“The cad!” exclaimed Game. “Why ever not?”
“He says he’s not sure, that’s why,” said Bloomfield; “but it’s my private opinion he’s shielding some one or other.”
“Of course he is,” said Ashley. “I shouldn’t wonder if he’s known who it is all along.”
“Anyhow,” said Tipper, “he ought to be made to clear it up, or else pay up for it. I know I’ll cut him dead next time I see him.”
“So shall we,” replied one or two others.
“He won’t afflict himself much about that,” said Bloomfield; “if I were sure he didn’t want to shirk it I’d be inclined to give him a day or two before doing anything.”
“What’s the use? Of course he wants to shirk it,” said Game, “and thinks it will blow over if it goes long enough. I’ll take precious good care it doesn’t, though.”
“Upon my honour,” said Ashley, “I never expected Willoughby would come to this pass. It was bad enough to have a coward and a fool as captain, but it’s rather too much when he turns out to be a cheat too!”
“And to think that he ever got stuck in the first eleven,” said Tipper. “I told you, Bloomfield, he’d be no credit to you.”
“He caught out that best man of theirs,” said Bloomfield.
“Bah! I’d sooner have lost the match twice over,” exclaimed Game, “than win it with his help!”
And so these estimable young gentlemen, satisfied that they alone were the glory and support of Willoughby, disposed in their own minds of their wicked captain, and thanked their lucky stars they were made of nobler stuff and loftier principle.
Chapter Twenty Eight
Wyndham makes a final Venture
If any proof had been needed that young Wyndham was “down,” as the Parrett’s fellows termed it, the fact that he did not put in appearance at the second-eleven practice next day supplied it.
Bloomfield, who in ordinary course had strolled round to watch the play, noticed his absence, and drew his own conclusions from it.
To Bloomfield’s credit be it said that, whatever his own suspicions may have been, he had been as reluctant as Riddell himself, as long as any doubt existed, to name Wyndham publicly as the culprit for whom all Willoughby was on the lookout. He had been very angry with Riddell for his reserve, but when it came to the point of publishing his own suspicions or not, his better feeling prevented him, and led him to copy the captain’s example.
For Riddell’s reply to the suggestion of Wyndham’s name had neither confirmed or denied its correctness. He had merely declined to say anything about the matter, so that as far as Bloomfield was concerned it was no more than a guess, and that being so, he too was wise enough to keep it to himself.
However, now that he noticed Wyndham’s unwonted absence from the cricket practice, he felt more than ever convinced something was wrong in that quarter.
And so there was.
Wyndham, with a drawn sword, so to speak, over his head, was fit for nothing.
He dared not go back to Riddell. As long as his tongue was tied any explanation was impossible, and unless he could explain, it was worse than useless to talk to the captain.
Equally out of the question was a confession to the doctor, or a letter explaining all to his brother. The only thing was either to make up his mind to his fate, or else, by getting Silk and Gilks to release him from his promise, to get his tongue free to make a full confession of his own delinquencies, and throw himself entirely on the doctor’s mercy.
This last chance seemed feeble enough. But a drowning man will clutch at a straw, and so Wyndham, as his last hope, faced the unpromising task of working on the generosity of his two old patrons.
He began with Gilks. Gilks was in his own house, and had always seemed to be the least vicious, as he was also the least clever of the two. Besides, of late it was notorious Gilks and Silk were no longer the friends they had been. There was a mystery about their recent quarrel; but as Gilks had been down in the mouth ever since, while Silk showed no signs of dejection, it was safe to assume the former had come off second best.
Wyndham therefore selected Gilks for his first attempt as being on the whole the less formidable of the two.
He found him in his study listlessly turning over the pages of a novel, which evidently must either have been a very stupid one or else not nearly as engrossing as the reader’s own reflections.
He looked up with some surprise to see Wyndham, who since he had somewhat ostentatiously cut his and Silk’s acquaintance some weeks ago, had never been near him.
“What do you want here?” he demanded, not very encouragingly.
“I know you’ve not much reason to be friendly with me,” began the boy, “but I want to speak to you, if I may.”
“What about?” said Gilks, roughly.
The poor boy seemed suddenly to realise the hopeless nature of the task he had undertaken, and he nearly broke down completely as he answered, “I’m in awful trouble, Gilks.”
“What’s that to do with me?” asked Gilks.
Wyndham struggled hard to shake off the weakness that had come over him, and replied, “It’s about those visits to — to Beamish’s. They — that is, Riddell — I don’t know how or who told him — but he seems to have found out about it.”