Heathcote was standing with his hands in his pockets looking about him.

What business had Heathcote to look about him when he (Dick) was standing at attention?
Why should Heathcote escape the jeers of mockers, while he (Dick) had to bear the brunt of them?
It wasn't fair.

And yet he wasn't going to put his hands in his pockets and look about him to give them the triumph of saying they laughed him into it.

No! So Dick stood steadily and reverently all the service, and was observed by not a few as one of the good ones of whom good things might be expected.
When chapel was over fate once more severed him from his chum, and deferred the explanation to which both were looking forward.
The matron kidnapped Master Richardson on his way into the house, in order to call his attention to a serious inconsistency between the number of his shirts in his portmanteau, and the number on the inventory accompanying them, an inconsistency which Dick was unable to throw any light on whatever, except that he supposed it must be a mistake, and it didn't much matter.
It certainly mattered less than the fact that, owing to this delay, he had lost his seat next to Heathcote at breakfast, and had to take his place at the lowest table, where he could not even see his friend.
There was great joking during the meal about the escapade in the lobby last night, the general opinion being that it had been grand sport all round, and that it was lucky the monitors weren't at home at the time.
"Beastly grind," said one youngster--"all of them coming back to-day.

A fellow can't turn round but they interfere." "Are all the Sixth monitors ?" asked Dick.
"Rather," replied his neighbour, whom Dick discovered afterwards to be no other than Raggles, the hero of the "cargo," whose fame he had heard the day before.
"What's the name of the captain ?" "Oh, Ponty! He doesn't hurt," said the boy.