After that Riddell was only dimly conscious of what passed, and it was not until he found himself once more in the playground, being helped along by Fairbairn towards the house, that he took in the fact that the rescue had been accomplished, and that the battle was at an end.

“Did they get Wyndham in all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Was he much damaged?”

“Very little. You got it worse than he did.”

“Some fellow got behind me and sent me over,” said Riddell.

“Some fellow did,” said Fairbairn, fiercely, “and I know who.”

“Who?”

“Silk.”

“What! are you sure?”

“I was as close to you at the time as I am now — I’m quite sure.”

“The coward! Did any one else see it?”

“No, I think not.”

The two walked on in silence to Welch’s house, and once more reached the study they had so abruptly quitted.

“Are you badly hurt?” asked Fairbairn.

“Not a bit; my shin is a little barked, that’s all.”

“What a bulldog you can be when you like, old man,” said Fairbairn, laughing. “I never saw any one go into battle so gamely. Why, the whole glory of the rescue belongs to you.”

“What bosh! You had to rescue me as well as Wyndham. But I’m thankful he’s safe.”

“You’re awfully sweet about that precious youngster,” said Fairbairn. “I hope he’ll be grateful to you, that’s all.”

Riddell said nothing, and shortly afterwards Fairbairn said he must go. As he was leaving Riddell called him back.

“I say, Fairbairn,” said he, in his half-nervous way, “you needn’t say anything about Silk, there’s a good fellow; it wouldn’t do any good.”

“He deserves a good thrashing,” said Fairbairn, wrathfully.

“Never mind; don’t say anything about it, please.”

And Fairbairn promised and went.

It was quite a novel sensation for the captain to find himself figuring in the eyes of Willoughby as a “bulldog.” He knew he was about the last person to deserve the proud title, and yet such are the freaks of fortune, the exaggerated stories of the rescue, differing as they did in nearly every other particular, agreed in this, that he had performed prodigies of valour in the engagement, and had, in fact, rescued Wyndham single-handed.

More than one fellow dropped in during the evening to inquire how he was, and to confirm his new reputation.

Pilbury and Cusack were among the first.

“Is it true your leg’s broken?” cried the latter, as he entered the study, in tones of unfeigned concern.

“No, of course not,” replied the captain, laughing. “What made you think so?”

“The fellows said so. Pil and I were too far behind to back you up, you know, or we would have, wouldn’t we, Pil?”

“Rather,” replied Pil.

“Why,” said the captain, catching sight of the bruised and ragged condition of these young men of war—“why, you’ve been knocked about a great deal more than I have.”

“Oh,” said Cusack, “that was in the run up from Shellport, you know. We did get it a little hot at first until we pulled together and came up in a body.”

“Never mind,” said Pilbury, “it was a jolly fine show-up for Pony. He’s sure to get in; the Radicals were nowhere.”

“And what are you going to say to the doctor in the morning?” asked Riddell.

“Eh? oh, I suppose we shall catch it. Never mind, there’ll be lots to keep us company. And we’ve given Pony a stunning leg-up.”

And so the two heroes, highly delighted with themselves, and still far too excited to feel ashamed of their mutinous conduct, departed to talk over the day’s doings with the rest of their set, and rejoice in the glorious “leg-up” they had given to the Whig candidate.

Other fellows looked in, and bit by bit Riddell picked up the whole history of that eventful afternoon.

It did not appear whether the wholesale breaking of bounds had been a preconcerted act or a spontaneous and infectious impulse on the part of the whole school. Whichever it was, directly dinner was over and the monitors had retired to their houses, a general stampede had been made for Shellport, and almost before many of the truants knew where they were they were in the thick of the election crowd.

At first each set vented its loyalty in its own peculiar way. Some stood in the streets and cheered everything yellow they could discover; others crowded round the polling places and groaned the Radicals; some went off to look for the candidates themselves, and when at last Sir George Pony appeared on the scene in his carriage his enthusiastic young supporters set up a cheer enough to frighten the good old gentleman out of his wits, and, but for the active interference of the police, would have insisted on taking out the horses and dragging the triumphal car themselves round the town.

For a considerable time these juvenile demonstrations were allowed to pass with good-humoured forbearance by the town; but when presently, emboldened by their immunity, the schoolboys proceeded not only to hoot but occasionally to molest the opposite side, the young Shellporters began to resent the invasion. A few scuffles ensued, and the temper of both parties rose. The schoolboys waxed more and more outrageous, and the town boys more and more indignant, so that just about the time when the poll was closing, and when call-over was being sounded up at the school, a free fight had begun in the streets of Shellport.

At the first alarm the school had rallied from all sides, and concentrated its forces on the enemy, who seemed determined to dispute every inch of the ground between the town and the school.

How that battle ended, and how finally the schoolboys got home, we have already seen.

Riddell did not feel it his duty under present circumstances to read his visitors a lecture on the wickedness of breaking bounds. He said it was a wonder they had all got up as safely as they had, and that no more damage had been done. As to the penalties, he advised them to turn up at call-over in the morning and hear all about that from the doctor.

Early next morning, just as Riddell was dressed, there was a knock at his door, and young Wyndham entered.

He looked dejected and uncomfortable, but otherwise appeared to have recovered from the effects of yesterday’s ill-usage.

“I say,” said he, going up to the captain and holding out his hand, “I’m awfully sorry I was such a cad to you yesterday.”

“Not a bit, old fellow,” said Riddell, seizing his hand, and glowing with pleasure at this unexpected visit. “Everybody was a bit riled, and no wonder.”

“But I’ve no excuse, I know, after all your brickishness to me, and now, after your helping me out as you did in the scrimmage yesterday, I’m awfully ashamed of being such a low cad.”

This was evidently no put-on apology for the occasion, and Wyndham, as he spoke, looked as penitent as his words.

“Oh, nonsense!” said Riddell, who could never stand being apologised to, and always felt more uncomfortable at such times than the apologiser. “But I say, were you much hurt?”

“No, not much. I got down among their feet somehow and couldn’t get up. But if you hadn’t turned up when you did I might have got it hot.”

“It was Fairbairn pulled us both out, I think,” said Riddell, “for I was down too.”

“Yes, I hear you got an awful hack.”

“Nothing much at all.”

“I say, Riddell,” said Wyndham, nervously, after a pause, “I mean to break with Silk; I wish I’d never taken up with him. I shouldn’t have gone down to the town at all yesterday if it hadn’t been for him.”

“I think you’d be ever so much better without him,” said Riddell.

“I know I would. Do you recollect lecturing me about sticking up for myself that night last month? I’ve been uncomfortable about chumming with him ever since, but somehow he seemed to have a pull on me.”

“What sort of pull?”

“Oh,” said the boy, becoming still more uncomfortable, and afraid of breaking his promise to say nothing about Beamish’s, “a good many things of one sort or another. I’ve gone wrong, I know.”