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.