form prize; everything had
gone swimmingly for him. The Urbans looked up to him; the head master
had patted him on the back; the Redwoods had taken a fancy to him. No
one thought of calling him by a feminine nickname.

"I think Low Heath's a ripping place," said he, as we strolled past the
gate of the empty quadrangle in one of our holiday rambles. "I'm jolly
glad we got kicked out of Dangerfield, ain't you?"

"Middling," said I; "the fact is, Dicky, you may as well know it, but
I'm rather sick of this place."

"Hullo!" said he, looking at me, "why, I thought you were having such a
high old time."

"I--I've come a bit of a howler, Dicky;" here I gulped ominously, much
to Dicky's concern. "I've fooled things rather, you know." I was in
for my confession now, and gave the penitent horse his head. "I'm jolly
miserable, Dicky, that's all about it, and wish I was dead, don't you
know, and that sort of thing."

"What's up, old chappie?" said Dicky, taking my arm, and evidently in a
fright lest I should compromise myself by breaking down on the spot.
"Come down by the willows; it's rather muddy, but it's quieter."

So we ploughed through the mud under the willows, and I let out on Dicky
all that was in my heart. I'm sure he thought it a lot of bosh, but he
was too kind to say so, and hung on to my arm, and never once
contradicted me when I called myself a fool.

"You have rotted it a bit," remarked he, when the story was complete.
"Never mind, old chap, it can't be helped. You'll worry through all
right."

This was true comfort. If Dicky had been a prig like me, he would have
tried to talk to me like a father, and driven me crazy. It made all the
difference that he understood me, and yet believed in me a little.

"It strikes me," said he, with refreshing candour, "you fancy yourself a
bit too much, Tommy. I'd advise you to lie low a bit, and it will all
come round."

"That's just exactly what Tempest said to me the first day of term,"
said I, with a groan.

"There you are," said he; "bless you, you're not going to get done over
one wretched term, are you? I wouldn't if I were you."

"But all the chaps are down on me."

"What do you care?" said he, with a snort. "Who cares twopence about
the lot of them--chaps like them too? You're a cut better than that
lot, I fancy--ought to be, anyhow."

What balm it all was to my wounds! What miles of mud we ploughed
through that afternoon I and how, as the