One other thing was clear too. He must see both Wyndham and Bloomfield in the morning.
With which resolve, and not without a prayer for wisdom better than his own to act in this crisis, he retired to bed.
Early next morning, before almost any sign of life showed itself in Willoughby, the captain was up and dressed.
The magic that so often attends on a night’s sleep had done its work on him, and as he walked across the quadrangle that fresh summer morning his head was clear and his mind made up.
The outer door of the schoolhouse was still unopened, and he paced outside, as it seemed to him, for half an hour before he could get in.
He went at once to Wyndham’s study, and found that young athlete arraying himself in his cricket flannels.
“Hullo, Riddell!” cried he, as the captain entered; “have you come to see the practice? We’re going to play a scratch match with some of the seniors. You play too, will you?”
The captain did not reply to this invitation, and his serious face convinced Wyndham something must be wrong.
“What’s up, I say?” he inquired, looking concerned.
“Nothing very pleasant,” said Riddell. “You heard of the fight last night?”
“Eh? between Silk and Gilks? Yes. I half guessed it would come to that. They’ve been quarrelling a lot lately.”
“I reported them, and they are to go to the doctor’s after breakfast,” said Riddell.
“They’ll catch it, I expect,” said Wyndham. “Paddy’s sure to be down on them because they’re seniors.”
“They expect to catch it. At least, Silk says so. He came to me last night and tried to get me to withdraw the names. And when I said I couldn’t be threatened to tell about you, and get you into a row.”
Wyndham’s face changed colour.
“What? I say, do you think he really will?” he exclaimed.
“I think it’s very likely,” said the captain.
“Of course, you can’t withdraw the names?” said the boy.
“I’ve no right to do it — no, I can’t,” replied the captain.
“Oh, of course. But I say, what had I better do?” faltered the boy. “I hoped that bother was all over.”
“I would advise you to go to the doctor before chapel and tell him yourself.”
The boy’s face fell.
“How can I? I promised I wouldn’t, and Silk wouldn’t let me off when I asked him.”
“But he is going to tell of you, he says. You had much better let the doctor hear it from you than from him.”
“If only I could!” exclaimed the boy; “but how can I?”
“I don’t want to persuade you to break a promise,” said the captain, “but I’m sorry for it.”
“I suppose I’m sure to get expelled,” said the boy, dismally; “they’re sure to make it as bad against me as they can.”
Riddell reflected a little, and then said, “Perhaps it’s only a threat, and no more. At any rate, if the doctor is told he is sure to give you a chance of telling him everything, so don’t give up hope, old man.”
Poor Wyndham did not look or feel very hopeful certainly as he thought over the situation.
“Thanks for telling me about it, anyhow,” said he. “I say, shall you be there to hear what they say?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But if you are sent for let me know, and I’ll go with you.”
With this grain of comfort the captain went, leaving Wyndham anything but disposed to show up at the cricket practice. Indeed, for a little while he gave up all thought of going out, and it was not till a messenger arrived to tell him he was keeping everybody waiting that he screwed himself up to the effort and went.
Riddell meanwhile, with the other half of his mission still to execute, went over to Parrett’s. Parson was lounging about at the door, with a towel over his arm, waiting, as any one might have guessed, for Telson.
“Has Bloomfield gone out?” asked the captain of this youthful hero.
Parson, who ever since the famous breakfast in Riddell’s room had looked upon the captain with eyes of favour, replied, “No, I don’t think so, I’ll go and see if you like.”
“Thanks. If he’s in, tell him I want to speak to him.”
“All serene. Hold my towel, do you mind? It’s Bosher’s, and he may try to collar it if he sees me. And tell Telson I’ll be back in a second.”
And off he went, leaving the captain in charge of Bosher’s towel.
He soon returned with a message that Bloomfield was getting up, and would be out in a minute or two.
“I say,” said he, after the two had waited impatiently some time, each for his own expected schoolfellow, “did you see much of the fight last night?”
“No,” said Riddell, “I didn’t see it at all.”
“Oh, hard lines. I got there late, as I went to tell Telson. Gilks used his right too much, you know. We both thought so. He keeps no guard to speak of, and— Hullo! where on earth have you been all this time?”
This last exclamation was in honour of Telson, who appeared on the scene at that moment, and with whom the speaker joyfully departed, leaving Riddell only half informed as to the scientific defects in Gilks’s style of boxing.
In due time Bloomfield appeared, not a little curious to know the object of this early interview.
Riddell, too, was embarrassed, for the last time they met they had parted on anything but cordial terms. However, that had nothing to do with his duty now.
“Good-morning,” he said, in reply to Bloomfield’s nod. “Do you mind taking a turn? I want to tell you something.”
Bloomfield obeyed, and that morning any one who looked out might have witnessed the unusual spectacle of the Willoughby captains walking together round the quadrangle in eager conversation.
“You heard of the fight?” said Riddell.
“Yes; what about it?” inquired Bloomfield.
“I’ve reported it. And last night Silk came to me and asked me to get back the names.”
“You won’t do it, will you?” asked Bloomfield.
“No. But the reason why Silk wanted it was because he was afraid of something else coming out. He says it was Gilks who cut the rudder-lines.”
“What! Gilks?” exclaimed Bloomfield, standing still in astonishment. “It can’t be! Gilks was one of us. He backed our boat all along!”
“That’s just what I can’t make out,” said the captain; “and I wanted to see what you think had better be done.”
“Have you asked Gilks?” inquired Bloomfield.
“No. I thought perhaps the best thing was to wait till they had been up to the doctor. They may let out about it to him, if there’s anything in it. If they don’t, we should see what Gilks says.”
“If it had been your lines that were cut,” said Bloomfield, “I could have believed it. He had a spite against all your fellows, and especially you, since he was kicked out of the boat. But he had betted over a sovereign on us, I know.”
“I shouldn’t have believed it at all,” said Riddell, “if Silk hadn’t sent me an anonymous note a week or two ago. Here it is, by the way.”
Bloomfield read the note.
“Did you go and see the boat-boy?” he asked.
“Yes; and all I could get out of him was that some one had got into the boat-house that night, and scrambled out of the window just in time to avoid being seen. But the fellow, whoever he was, dropped a knife, which I managed to get from Tom, and which turned out to be one young Wyndham had lost.”
“Young Wyndham! Then it was true you suspected him?”
“It was true.”
And then the captain told his companion the story of the complication of misunderstandings which had led him almost to the point of denouncing the boy as the culprit; at the end of which Bloomfield said, in a more friendly tone than he had yet assumed, “It was a shave, certainly. Young Wyndham ought to be grateful to you. He’d have found it not so easy to clear himself if you’d reported him at once.”
“I dare say it would have been hard,” said Riddell.
“I’m rather ashamed of myself now for trying to make you do it,” said Bloomfield.