“But I did the gong—I mean, the bath-part, please sir,” I put in, unable any longer to let Julius bear all the blame.
There was a considerable pause, during which grease dripped audibly upon the floor from the master’s candle, while Goldingham lay blinking in bed in such a way that I dared not look at him for fear of laughter. I have often wondered since what passed through the mind of Tuke Martin, the senior Master of Mathematics, during that pregnant interval.
“Get up, all of you,” he said at length, “and pick up this mess. Otherwise you’ll cut your feet to pieces in the morning. Here, Goldingham, you help too. You’re no more asleep than the others.” He tried to make his tone severe.
“Goldingham only woke when the glass fell off the ledge, sir,” explained LeVallon. “It was all my doing, really——”
“And mine,” I put in belatedly.
Martin watched us gather up the fragments, Goldie, still dazed and troubled, barking his shins against chairs and bedposts, unable to find his blue glasses in the excitement.
“Put the pieces in the bath,” continued Martin shortly, “and ring for William in the morning to clear it away. And pay the matron for a new looking-glass,” he added, with something of a sneer; “Mason half, and you, LeVallon, the other half.”
“Of course, sir,” said Julius.
“And don’t let me hear any further sounds to-night,” said the master finally, closing the window, and going out after another general look of suspicion round the room.