"You'll be glad to hear I'm not going to talk to you.

I'm going to thrash you." And that beautiful holiday morning George Heathcote was thrashed in a manner which hurt and startled him.
He fled from the Captain's presence, sore both in body and mind.

But, strange to say, his chief wrath was reserved not for the Captain, but for Dick.

His mind, once poisoned, contrived to connect Dick with every calamity that came upon him.

And it enraged him to think that at this moment, while he was smarting under the penalty of a straightforward honest breach of rules, inflicted by a senior whose chief quarrel with him was that he had had the pluck to stay away from levee, Dick was reaping the benefit of his toadyism and basking in the sunshine of the powers that were.
Pledge, as might be expected, did nothing to discourage this feeling.
He was not a bit surprised.