“What d’you think?” he said. “I’ve caught half a dozen fellows bathing just now. The new boy Anthony was among ’em. And he’d nearly drowned Jarnley—the beggar! What d’you think of that?”
“What, sir? Nearly drowned him?”
“I should think so,” pursued the master, chuckling with glee. “Jarnley lay there gasping like a newly caught fish. It seems he’d been trying to duck Cetchy, and Cetchy ducked him instead. Nearly drowned him too. Ha—ha!”
Haviland roared too.
“That chap’ll be able to take care of himself, I believe, sir,” he said. “I need hardly have smacked Jarnley’s head for bullying him the other day.”
“I know you did,” said the other dryly, causing Haviland to stop short with a half grin, as he reflected how precious little went on in the school that Sefton didn’t know.
“Well, he’s got four hundred lines to get through now,” went on the latter. “I let Cetchy off with a hundred.”
“I expect the other fellows made him go with them, sir,” said Haviland. “And he’s hardly been here a week yet.”
“If I let him off them, the other fellows’ll take it out of him,” said Mr Sefton, who understood the drift of this remark.
“They’ll do that anyhow, sir. But I’ve a notion they’ll tire of it before long.”