hout more ado the
lad was lowered down to the little group of loafers who had come to
see the sight and to pick up any stray penny that might be available.
A minute later George Fairburn was rapidly thawing before the rousing
fire in the inn's best parlour, and was gulping down the cup of hot
mulled ale the good-natured landlady had put into his trembling hands.

"I'm all right, ma'am, now, and I'll go. Thank you and good night,
ma'am."

"Go, Fairburn?" cried another boy of about his own age, who sat
comfortably in the arm-chair by the cosy chimney corner. "Surely you
are not going to turn out again this bitter night?"

"Indeed I am," was the somewhat ungracious reply; "my father is not a
rich man, and I'm not going to put him to needless expense."

The other boy blushed, but the next moment his face resumed its usual
pallor. He was tall for his fourteen years, but evidently not
particularly strong. He had, in truth, somewhat of a bookish look, and
his rounded shoulders already told of much poring over a student's
tasks. Fairburn, on the other hand, though less tall, carried in his
face and form all the evidence of robust good health.

"I've relatives somewhere in Darlington, Blackett," George explained,
in a rather pleasanter tone, as if ashamed of his former surly speech,
"and I'm going to hunt them up."

"Look here, Fairburn," said the other, springing from his seat and
placing a patronizing hand on his companion's shoulder, "just make
yourself comfortable here with me for the night, and I'll settle the
bill for both of us in the morning." He spoke rather grandly, jingling
the coins in his pocket the while.

"I can settle my own bills, thank you," answered Fairburn, a proud hot
flush overspreading his face. And, seizing his little bag, the lad
strode from the room and out of the inn, shivering as the chill
northeasterly breeze caught him in the now dark and almost deserted
street.

"Confound the fellow with his purse-proud patronage!" he muttered as
he hurried along.

"Bless me, why is he so touchy?" Blackett was asking himself at the
same moment. "We seem fated to quarrel, Fairburn's family and ours.
Whose is the pride now, I wonder! Fairburn thinks a deal of his
independence, as he calls it; I should call it simply pride, myself.
But I might have known that he wouldn't accept my offer after his
refusal of an inside place with me this morning, and after riding all
those miles from York to-day in the bitt