But it was all very miserable to me as I slunk home that afternoon in the train. All the hopes of the wonderful term had been disappointed. I was a recognised dunce and idler at Low Heath. I had lost my best friend and sold myself to his enemy. My self-respect was at a low ebb. I knew that in a post or two would come a report which would bring tears to my mother's eyes, and cause my guardian to grunt and say, "I expected as much." The worst of it was, I could not get it out of my head yet that I was rather a fine young fellow if only people knew it, and that my misfortunes were more to blame for the failure of the term than my faults. To my relief a letter came early in the holidays from Dicky Brown's people, asking me to spend the last two weeks with them, I jumped at it, for in my present miserable frame of mind even home was dismal. But when I found myself back at Low Heath, installed in Dicky's quiet little family circle, I was almost sorry I had come. For Dicky was all high spirits and jubilation. He had won a 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."