After chapel, as he was walking across the quadrangle, a scurry of feet and a rustle of long garments behind him caused Haviland to turn. He beheld Mr Sefton.
“Did you find lots of eggs this afternoon, Haviland?” said the master, who was still in his canonicals and square cap.
“Yes, sir. A grand lot. Thanks so much for giving us leave.”
“Are you teaching Cetchy bird-nesting?”
“Yes, sir. He wants to collect. He’s a good hand at finding them too.”
“Ah! Don’t get him into mischief. Eh? And keep out of it yourself. D’you hear? Keep out of it yourself.”
There was a warning note underlying the quaint, dry quizzical tone which was not lost upon the hearer. He was wondering how much Sefton suspected, but at the same time was thinking how dearly he would have liked to tell Sefton the joke about the ghost, but that of course he dared not. Yet Sefton would have appreciated it so keenly—no one more so. But he only answered:
“I’ll try to, sir. Yes, we had a real ripping afternoon—thanks to you.”
“Ha!” With which enigmatical ejaculation the master nodded and went his way.
That evening, in the dormitory, Haviland being in hall at supper with the other prefects off duty, Anthony was relating, in his quaint racy English, the exciting events of the afternoon, all except the ghost episode, which he had been strictly enjoined to keep to himself. Those who were collectors were thrilled with envy.