Luke Harwood brought in a whole sheaf of subscriptions1 which he had voluntarily collected from Holbeck's House. There was a fine spirit of sportsmanship about his unsought assistance, which almost betrayed the grateful Captain into a display of emotion. O'er Roger Cayton's head it heaped coals of fire indeed!
"'Pon my word, Harwood, you're real jannock," Dick managed to stammer3. "What hours you must have spent on this collecting stunt4! It—it's downright brickish of you."
"Oh, cut that out," said Harwood, with a laugh. "To be honest, it was a jolly good excuse for dodging5 'prep.'. I didn't feel like swotting last night."
"But I say, you know, you shame me. I never thought of doing anything like this for you, Harwood!"
"The cases don't run on all fours, old man. I took over The Foxonian as a going concern. Generations of Foxonians had edited it before me. It was almost as old and venerable as Nelson's monument. You had competition to face—your Rag was an infant in arms. I love rivalry—it stimulates6 me. Let nothing discourage you, old boy—keep right on making each number better than the last."
He faded away with his customary grace, leaving behind him a completely captivated Dick and a non-plussed and sour-visaged Roger.
"How now, Stormy Petrel!" cried Dick. "It's amusing to what extremes you carry your prejudice against Luke Harwood, Roger. Bears you no malice7 whatever for the hard knocks you gave him in your 'Sauce for the Gander' column. Now, Roger, knuckle8 under, old man! He's our Good Samaritan."
"Who appointed him our collector, anyway?" said Roger. "Sly impertinence, I call it. Well," he added, relenting at sight of Dick's crestfallen9 face, "perhaps I am rather a graceless churl10 to-night. I'll put this bagful of money safely away in the locker11, and then start raking the subscriptions in myself before some other voluntary helper queers my pitch!"
Harwood's "sly impertinence" had gingered Roger up, at any rate. By nightfall he had wheedled12 "subs" out of the majority of Rooke's House, and when they visited Moston with "copy" for the second number of the Rag, they carried with them funds ample enough to defray the cost of publication for months ahead.
"Gentlemen, do you mind holdin' over the matter of payment a week or two?" said the Manager of the Moston Fairtype Press, almost plaintively13. "I'm just now neck-deep in arrears14 of work—never a spare moment for book-keepin' do I get."
"Oh, but we'd rather pay, really, and get it off our minds," said Dick.
"Then we shall know exactly where we stand," Roger supplemented.
The manager spread out his ink-stained hands imploringly15.
"It's all right, Mr. Forge—carry on, Mr. Cayton. I know you both—we can trust one another. I'll make out a bill to-morrow and you can pay me next time you're in town. I'd much rather!"
So the co-editors went away again with the money in their pockets, excusably touched by this further proof of confidence in their honesty. Number two of the Rag came out in all its glory, irreproachably16 printed on fine-quality paper, and so far they hadn't been permitted to pay a farthing towards its cost! It seemed almost like philanthropy.
It was gratifying, too, to see how much better the second issue went down than the first had done. Probably because they had paid for it this time, the boys did not chuck it about, and it appeared to be read with even closer attention than was the monthly Foxonian, brought out simultaneously17. In truth, the rival papers lashed18 out at each other, though with perfect fairness, and the contents of both were voted "particularly spicy19".
"Roger, old man, shake!" cried Dick, after tea. "This is my life's happiest day, I really think. Thanks, as much as anything, to your pungent20 'Sauce for the Gander', we are in this pleasant position—— Now, kid, why are you nosing about here? Clear off!"
He broke into his congratulatory speech to turn irritably21 on a flabby-faced, unhealthily fat youngster, who had had the amazing cheek to draw his attention by plucking at his sleeve.
"Privately! Well, of all the nerve! You can say anything you've got to say in front of my friend here, and look slippery, too. Doubt if I ought to let you speak at all—butting into our conversation like that."
"Sorry, Forge, but I don't think you'll mind when I've told you everything. I've come to you for protection."
"Protection! From me? I'm honoured—overwhelmed! Take a square look at this young genius, Roger. Is he quite 'all there', do you consider?"
"Nothing balmy about me, Forge," said the youngster, with self-possession. "I merely called to lay a complaint——"
"Well, don't lay it as heavily as a foundation-stone," interrupted Dick. "That'll do for the first part of your speech, youngster. Hurry up with the second. I'll give you a couple of minutes."
He took out his watch.
"I'm Mawdster, from Holbeck's House—the boy who stuck up for the Rooke's House Rag when all my chums were slating23 it."
"Ah, to be sure!" said Roger. "One of the Squirms, and looks it, too."
The Junior gave Roger a quick glance which seemed to say, "It's none of your business, anyhow." Then he made his moan.
"Ever since that day, Forge, I've caught it hot from both sides—my own and Robin24 Hood's. And all because I said your mag. was better got-up than The Foxonian."
Dick and Roger exchanged half-amused glances. Then Dick looked back at his watch.
"A lot, Forge! They blackguard me all the time—I've a dog's life between the two gangs—and yesterday they held my head down ever so long in the fountain."
"Did you report that to your prefect?"
"Yes—to Harwood. But he only laughed and said it would save me the trouble of washing myself—or some such rot. I know why he did nothing—because he'd heard I'd been running The Foxonian down and praising your Rag, Forge. He'll always have his knife into me for that."
"Oh, rather!" said the Captain, ironically. "Quite a natural assumption that Harwood will lie awake o' nights wondering how to get even with you. Don't be an idiot, young Mudster."
"Mawdster, if you please, Forge," the Junior corrected, not too respectfully.
"Mawdster, then! Don't snap! I think I understand you now. You belong to Holbeck's House, whose prefect snubs you. Then, because you once praised my magazine, you expect me to slip across and break a stick over the backs of a score of youngsters who are ragging you. If there's a more brazen26 little bounder in the whole of Foxenby, I've yet to hear of him. Quit!"
"But please, Forge——"
The flabby youth, realizing that his audacious appeal had failed, got quickly out of the range of Dick's boot. But he paused long enough to get in a parting shot—a stinger, too.
"After all," he said, "it's putrid27 to be bullied28 for praising the contents of a magazine, when all you really fancied was the paper and print!"
Both laughed ruefully at this when Mawdster had vanished.
"That's a backhander for us, straight between the eyes," said Roger.
"Rather!" Dick agreed. "The oily maggot! I only wish I'd taken your tip, Roger, and driven my uninjured foot into his fat carcase!"
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1
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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stunt
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| n.惊人表演，绝技，特技；vt.阻碍...发育，妨碍...生长 | |
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5
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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6
stimulates
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| v.刺激( stimulate的第三人称单数 )；激励；使兴奋；起兴奋作用，起刺激作用，起促进作用 | |
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7
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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knuckle
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| n.指节；vi.开始努力工作；屈服，认输 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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churl
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| n.吝啬之人；粗鄙之人 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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12
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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15
imploringly
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| adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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irreproachably
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| adv.不可非难地，无过失地 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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slating
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| 批评 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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27
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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