"Back, back! Twelve to one—cowards, cowards!"

The Bedes fell back as the youth fell among them, and cleared a passage to Paul. Paul, momentarily stunned by his fall, breathed freely again, and leapt to his feet.

"Why, it's Percival!" said the new-comer. "Are you hurt?"

Paul could scarcely believe his eyes, as he found himself again confronting Gilbert Wyndham.

"No, thanks," he answered stiffly.

He would rather have been indebted to any one than to Wyndham. He had wished to clear off the debt between them, but instead of that he found himself more indebted to him than ever. For a second time he had been placed under an obligation to him.

"You don't see who it is, Wyndham," came a voice from the ranks of the Bedes, disappointed of their prey. "It's a Gargoyle—the wretched Gargoyle who showed such a clean pair of heels at the sand-pit."

"Yes, I do see who it is; but, whoever he is, that's no reason why a dozen of you should set on him at once. That's not fair play, Murrell."

"Half a dozen of 'em set on me," came the voice of Mellor. "What's good enough for the Gargoyles ought to be good enough for us."

"That's just where you're wrong, Mellor," answered Wyndham coolly. "What's good enough for a Gargoyle isn't good enough for a Bede—is it, Bedes?"

A murmur of ready assent went up at this appeal—from all except Mellor.

"You see, you are half a Gargoyle yourself, Mellor, or you would have known that. You belong to the amphibia at present. When you've grown out of that you will know better, won't he, Bedes?"

A laugh went up—from all except Mellor. The storm which had looked threatening began to clear under the ready tact of Wyndham. Still, the boys did not like the idea of letting Paul go scot-free.

"Yes, you'll know better than that by-and-by, Mellor," said the youth addressed as Murrell. "Your education was neglected as a Gargoyle. You'll improve as you go along. But, I say, Wyndham, what are you going to do with the specimen you've got? You can't stick it in the museum, you know. So turn it over to us again. We won't hurt it. We'll only give it a run to the sand-pit, and a roll down. It will do it good. Eating sand is better than eating dirt."

"Yes, hand him over," came in a chorus.

"No," came the decided answer, as Wyndham twined his arm in Paul's. "The Gargoyle is my property."

"What are you going to do with him?" demanded Murrell.

"I want to have a little quiet talk with him, that's all."

What could Wyndham want with a little quiet talk with a Gargoyle? It could only be for one purpose—to gather information which might be of use to the Bedes in any future campaign against Garside. So the boys reluctantly turned away, and left Wyndham and Paul together.

"Why have you come a second time to my help?" came in a choking voice from Paul when they were alone.

"Really, I don't know," smiled Wyndham. "Does it matter much? Do you mind?"

"Mind! After what happened at the sand-pit the other day. Mind! I would rather have been under an obligation to any one than you."

"Do you mean it?" asked Wyndham, now quite grave.

"Of course I do. I was never more in earnest in my life. I had hoped to clear off the debt that was between us, and now you have placed me in your debt a second time."

"If you mean by debt that little service I was only too pleased to do for you at the well, I thought it was quite cleared off."

"How?"

"By the service you did for me at the sand-pit the other day."

"You are mocking me?"

"I was never more serious in my life," answered Wyndham, using Paul's words. "When I saw you standing before me at the sand-pit—saw who your fellows had selected as their champion—I was staggered. You were the last in the world I dreamt of seeing. I could see that you were bewildered, but not more than I was. I knew not how to act. Fight you? Impossible! Go away—turn on my heel? That seemed impossible, too. I should be stamped as a coward. I could not explain, because that would have meant giving away your secret. Then, as the thoughts flashed through my mind, you solved the riddle. You had the courage to do what I couldn't—you walked away."

Paul regarded Wyndham in wonder. The thoughts which had passed through Wyndham's mind were almost the same thoughts that had passed through his. The same struggle had gone on in both. For the moment the hard, bitter feeling that had stirred within him softened, and he was on the point of holding out his hand, when he remembered that it meant clasping the one that had so severely punished Stanley.

"I walked away," he echoed; "and then?"

"Why, then," smiled Wyndham, "things couldn't have happened better. Some bounder amongst your mob was anxious to bound into your shoes. He jumped up in an awfully excited way, muttering something about 'the honour of the Form.' He insisted on fighting me, and I didn't mind in the least. You know how it ended."

"Too well—too well," repeated Paul sadly. "Better far had I stayed. That was my friend you punished so."

"Your friend!"

"The best friend I had at Garside. We are friends no longer. Instead of that, he looks upon me now as his worst enemy, while all the school look upon me as a cur. But it isn't that I mind so much, it's losing the friendship of Stanley Moncrief."

"I'm sorry. I did not dream things were as bad as that. Who is this Stanley Moncrief?"

"He is the son of that gentleman for whom I took the letter to Redmead on the night you met me, and did me so great a service."

"If it was a service, I've undone it now," answered Wyndham sorrowfully. "I could not have done a worse one than I did you at the sand-pit. Why couldn't you explain to your friend?"

"I've tried to, but he won't listen. He is smarting under his defeat, and I don't wonder at it."

There was silence between them for a minute or two, then Wyndham exclaimed:

"Are you going back to Garside?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because I am going with you. Moncrief won't listen to you. He will listen to me."

"No, no!" said Paul firmly. "It is very kind of you, but I would rather not. If Stanley Moncrief and I are ever to be friends again, he will have to find out for himself that I'm not the cur he thinks me. I've tried to explain, but he would not hear. I shall never try again, unless he comes round and asks me."

"I think you are right," said Wyndham, after a pause. "None the less, I'm sorry—deeply sorry—that you should have lost your friend through me."

"Oh, things will work round presently," said Paul lightly. "I suppose, after that affair at the sand-pit, you were quite the hero of your school?"

"I don't know about hero. They made a lot of fuss over me, because, as you know well enough, there's no love lost between us and Garside. But if anybody deserves to be the hero of a school, it is you."

"Nonsense!"

"It is easy enough to flow with the tide, but awfully hard to struggle against it. That's what you're doing just now, Percival."

He walked with Percival for some distance on the road to Garside, and when they separated they shook hands, unaware of the fact that they had been seen by one of the Third Form. After Wyndham's explanation, how was it possible for Paul to refuse the hand held out to him?

Now, Stanley Moncrief was at this time in his dormitory, very miserable. He had been so, in fact, ever since he had broken with Paul. He had a real affection for him. He had loved him as he might have loved a brother; then, after his defeat at the sand-pit, he felt that there was only one thing to be done, and that was to—hate him. So he had broken off the friendship, and rushed into the arms of the two whom he disliked—Newall and Parfitt.

But when Stanley began to reflect a little more deeply, he began to see that he could not altogether shake off the old link that bound him to Paul. He had always been comfortable and at ease with him—could sit with him, as it were, in his shirt-sleeves and slippers. He had felt at home with him from the first day they met. He could not feel the same with Newall or Parfitt, try as he might. He seemed to be ever acting a part when he was with them, and they seemed to be doing the same when they were with him. For instance, he would have liked to have read the letter Paul sent him by Waterman; but the eyes of Newall were upon him, so he tore it up in bravado, and scattered the fragments in the way already described. It was not Stanley's real self did that—he was acting a part.

Again, when Paul entered the common room, looking so sad and miserable, Stanley's heart prompted him to stay and speak to his old friend. Perhaps he might have done so had he been alone; but he felt that the eyes of the others were upon him, especially Newall's. Something was expected of him. He was to give the lead; so he gave the lead, by walking from the room, and the rest followed him, with the solitary exception of Waterman.

Then he joined in the laughter and the jeers of his new-found friends when they got outside, all at the expense of Paul. Again, Stanley was acting a part. At heart he felt miserable. The sadness of Paul's face haunted him, and as soon as he could he escaped from his companions to the solitude of the dormitory.

He had been puzzled all along how it was Paul had acted in such a cowardly way at the sand-pit. He knew that he had no love for fighting; but once having taken up the gage of battle, he was not one to shrink from it. What was it his father had said? That no braver youth could be found than Paul Percival. His uncle had the same opinion, and they were not the men to make mistakes. Had his nature suddenly altered, or what had happened? More and more he regretted that he had not opened Paul's letter. It might have given him the answer to the riddle.

So Stanley sat on the side of the bed for a long time, very miserable. Indeed, I very much question whether of the two he was not the more miserable. It is true that nearly all Paul's companions dropped away from him; but perhaps it was better to lose companions than to have those you did not really want.

"It is all a hideous mistake. I'll go and make it up with Paul," he thought.

As he was thus thinking, the door opened, and his cousin entered.

"Well, Harry, what do you want?" he asked gruffly, as though resenting the intrusion.

Harry eyed him for a moment without answering.

"Can't you speak? Have you lost your tongue, Harry?"

"I saw Percival a little while ago, Stan."

"Well—what of it? What's that to me?"

"Nothing much, I suppose."

"Where did you see him?"

"Not very far from here. He was with that fellow—that beastly Beetle—who fought with you."

"What were they doing?"

"Oh, they were walking and talking together—very chummy. When they left, they shook hands—almost kissed each other."

"Shook hands! You are sure?"

"Positive."

"Run off, youngster. Leave me," cried Stanley hoarsely.

Harry ran out, wondering at the effect his information had had upon his cousin.

"Shook hands with him!" echoed Stanley, as he sank with a groan upon the bed.