CHAPTER NINE.
A LITERARY GHOST.
For two whole days Heathcote let "Junius's" letter burn holes in his pocket, not knowing what to think of it, or what to do with it.

For him to take Dick into his confidence was, however, a mere matter of time, for Heathcote's nature was not one which could hold a secret for many days together, and his loyalty to his "leader" was such that whenever the secret had to come out, Dick's was the bosom that had to receive it.
"It's rum," said the latter, after having read the mysterious document twice through.

"I don't like it, Georgie." "The thing is, I can't imagine who wrote it.

You didn't, did you ?" Dick laughed.
"Rather not.

I don't see the good of hole-in-the-corner ways of doing things like that." "Do you think Cresswell wrote it?
He's about the only senior that knows me, except Pledge." "I don't fancy he did; it's not his style," said Dick, who seemed quite to have taken the whipper-in under his wing.
"He might know.