So Anthony was called and made to give his version of the incident, which he did in such manner as to convulse both master and prefect—and, to his great delight, the imposition was remitted altogether.
“He’s no end of an amusing chap that, sir,” said Haviland when the African boy had gone out. “He has all sorts of yarns about Zululand—can remember about the war too. He’s in my dormitory, you know, sir, and he yarns away by the hour—”
The speaker broke off short and somewhat confusedly—as a certain comical twinkle in Mr Sefton’s eyes reminded him how guilelessly he was giving himself away: for talking in the dormitories after a certain time, and that rather brief, was strictly forbidden. Mr Sefton, secretly enjoying his confusion, coughed dryly, but made no remark. After all, he was not Haviland’s dormitory master.
“What a big fellow you’re getting, Haviland!” he said presently. “I suppose you’ll be leaving us soon?”
“I hope not, sir, at least not for another couple of terms. Then I expect I’ll have to.”
“You’re not eager to, then?” eyeing him curiously.
“Not in the least.”
“H’m! What are they going to make of you when you do leave?”
The young fellow’s face clouded.
“Goodness only knows, sir. I suppose I’ll have to go out and split rails in the bush, or something about as inviting, or as paying.”