He spoke in low tones and as if but half awake. He was, in fact, just
dropping into a doze.

"Here, mates, catch hold," the guard cried, and without more ado the
lad was lowered down to the little group of loafers who had come to
see the sight and to pick up any stray penny that might be available.
A minute later George Fairburn was rapidly thawing before the rousing
fire in the inn's best parlour, and was gulping down the cup of hot
mulled ale the good-natured landlady had put into his trembling hands.

"I'm all right, ma'am, now, and I'll go. Thank you and good night,
ma'am."

"Go, Fairburn?" cried another boy of about his own age, who sat
comfortably in the arm-chair by the cosy chimney corner. "Surely you
are not going to turn out again this bitter night?"

"Indeed I am," was the somewhat ungracious reply; "my father is not a
rich man, and I'm not going to put him to needless expense."

The other boy blushed, but the next moment his face resumed its usual
pallor. He was tall for his fourteen years, but evidently not
particularly strong. He had, in truth, somewhat of a bookish look, and
his rounded shoulders already told of much poring over a student's
tasks. Fairburn, on the other hand, though less tall, carried in his
face and form all the evidence of robust good health.

"I've relatives somewhere in Darlington, Blackett," George explained,
in a rather pleasanter tone, as if ashamed of his former surly speech,