Ralph Rexworth was inconsolable—he had lost his pocket-book. Now, a lost pocket-book may not seem a very big thing to grieve over, seeing that another one can be bought for a reasonable sum; and yet Ralph did grieve, and grieve greatly.
For this pocket-book was not like other pocket-books that might be bought. It was one which his father had given to him—the very last present which he had ever received from him—and it contained, amongst other things, and the greatest treasure of them all, a portrait of his darling mother, and the letter which his father had written to him on the day he made the present. What wonder, then, that a boy who loved his parents as Ralph Rexworth had done should grieve, and grieve greatly, over such a loss?
He found out the loss shortly after he reached Mr. St. Clive's, after rescuing Horace Elgert. He had been looking at some portraits of Irene, which had only just arrived from the photographers, and she had[Pg 141] given him one to keep for himself. What should he do with such a gift but put it into his pocket-book—and his pocket-book was not there!
Irene saw the change which came over his face when he had discovered the loss, and she asked him what was the matter. His face went quite white, so that Tom Warren, looking at him, wondered why such a manly, sensible chap should look so bad over such a little thing.
But then Tom Warren had father and mother living, and plenty of friends around; so that made all the difference. He did not understand what it was to be all alone in the world, or how people like that treasured every relic of friends and happy days that had been.
"Perhaps it tumbled from your pocket when you threw your coat off down by the river?" he suggested. "Let us go and have a look for it." And the two boys set off together.
"He does seem cut up," the monitor reflected, as they ran on; for Ralph hardly had a word to say now, so anxious was he.
But, no—no pocket-book was to be found. They searched every foot of the towing-path, and then went into the wood, to the very spot where they had rested that afternoon; but not a sign of the book could they see, and at last Warren declared that it was no use looking further.
"You cannot have dropped it anywhere about here,"[Pg 142] he said, "unless some one has seen it and picked it up. Had it got your name inside?"
"Yes," answered Ralph; "but then they won't know where to bring it. How will they know who Ralph Rexworth is, or where he lives? I am afraid I shall never see it again; and—and—" And Ralph broke off, unable to finish his sentence.
"Oh, come, don't be like that, Rexworth!" protested Warren. "At any rate, you can advertise for it and offer a reward; and any one who found it would be only too glad to bring it back and get the money. An old pocket-book is not so great a find that any one would want to keep it from you."
"No; it is only of value to me," admitted Ralph, giving one last vain look round. "Well, it is no use staying here now; and it is beginning to grow dark. I suppose that we had better go back."
The St. Clives were quite anxious to know whether the book had been recovered when the two boys once more reached the house, and they were full of sympathy when Ralph sadly shook his head.
"I suppose you are quite sure that you brought it away from school with you, Ralph?" said Mr. St. Clive; and that brought just one little ray of hope. Ralph could not be quite sure. He thought that he had done so—he always took it from the pocket of the coat he took off and transferred it to that of the one he was going to wear. He had taken off his school-jacket when he left that afternoon, and[Pg 143] though he felt nearly sure that he had done so, he could not be quite certain that he had taken his pocket-book from the pocket.
But he felt so anxious and worried that all the pleasure of the evening was gone; and when Warren finally said good-night and ran off to his own home, it was still with the reflection that Ralph Rexworth must indeed be a queer sort of chap, or else there must be some extra special reason for his worrying over that pocket-book in the way he did.
And when Warren had gone, Irene came and sat by her friend's side, being, indeed, a staunch little friend herself, and wanting to do something to comfort him; and she whispered again how she sympathized with him, and that perhaps the book was still at school, or, again, if it were really lost, it would be sure to be found by some one who would be likely to see the advertisement which Mr. St. Clive said should be printed, and then they would certainly bring it back to him.
And then she talked of the deed which Ralph had done that day, and how glad she was that he had been the means of saving Horace Elgert; and how, in returning good for evil, he would be sure to conquer; and just for the moment Ralph forgot his loss, and was interested.
"I could not do anything else, Irene," he said. "When it comes to saving a fellow's life, one cannot stop to consider whether they are friends or enemies.[Pg 144] It had to be done, though it has cost me enough," he added sadly.
"You think that you lost your pocket-book then?" she said; and he nodded.
"Yes. I must have jerked it out of my pocket when I threw my coat off."
"Well, then some of the other boys will most likely have found it, and they will bring it back to you on Monday."
"I hope, if they do find it, they will not open it and get playing about with its contents," he said anxiously; and she laughed.
"Why, how silly, Ralph! How can they possibly find out to whom it belongs unless they open it? Why should you mind that? You have nothing in it that you are afraid for people to see?"
"Oh, no, no; of course not!" he answered quickly. It was not that. He could not explain it to Irene—he could hardly understand it himself—but the idea of other hands touching that, and other eyes prying at its treasured contents, was very repugnant to Ralph's feelings.
The next morning Ralph was up early, almost as soon as it was light, and back in the neighbourhood of Becket Weir; and there, all alone in the freshness of the............