king. He had done nothing of
which he was ashamed, but the blow of Stanley was burning on his cheek,
and he felt wretched, miserable. He had striven for the best, but
somehow things had turned out for the worst. Once before when things
were at their blackest, there was one who had come to him, and placed a
little hand in his; but now there was no one, save the good God above.

He was thinking thus, when there was a tap on the door; the door was
jerked open with a shoulder; and Waterman, with his hands thrust deep
into his pockets, strode indolently in--just for all the world as though
he were coming to a picnic.

CHAPTER XLIV

IN THE GARDEN

"It's tiring work getting up stairs, especially these stairs--ugh!" said
Waterman, as he entered. "If you don't mind, I'll take a seat."

And without waiting for Paul to answer, Waterman dropped down, with his
hands still in his pockets, beside him on the bed.

"It was very good of you to give me a helping hand just now, Waterman."

"Oh, humbug! I've got a wretched sort of memory. Fact is, it's too great
a fag trying to recollect half the things crammed into you at school,
but I seem to have a better memory than most fellows for some things.
And there's one thing I can't forget--I can't forget you coming across
the ground with that little chap, so like a drowned rat, in your arms. I
shall have to be blind, deaf, and silly before I forget it."

Waterman spoke in his usual drawling tone, but its underlying note of
earnestness was quite unusual. Strange that Paul, too, had just been
thinking of Hibbert, but in a scene far different from that to which
Waterman had referred. God had been very good to him after all. He had
been thinking how utterly lonely he was, and yet a friend--true, a
somewhat indolent one--had come to him in his hour of adversity.

"And look here, Percival," went on Waterman, "there's something else I
remember. I don't know why, you know, but I do."

"What's that? Seems to me your memory's improving," said Paul.

"Oh, my memory's fairly good when it's not grubbing about amongst Latin
roots, or making a fellow bald-headed worrying over problems invented by
a fiend calling himself Euclid ever so many years ago. Why the
undertakers couldn't have buried them along with old Euclid, or stowed
them away with his mummy, is one of those things I could never
understand. Then if people wanted to dig them up again, they'd have been
in their right place--in th