“Very sorry, sir.”
The imposition was really less than he had expected. If only the matter were to rest there, he thought.
“I say, Haviland,” subsequently remarked Laughton in hall. “You’re a cool customer, marching in behind Nick in that stately manner. Did you think he wouldn’t see you?”
“Yes. It was the only chance, and I took it. He wouldn’t have, either, if all those asses hadn’t given, the show away by gaping like so many idiots, confound them.”
“What’s Williams given you?”
“Four hundred. I believe I’ll try and get him to let me off one. He hasn’t gated me either. He’s a good sort, is Williams. What do you think, Laughton? Think Nick’ll take the thing any further? The old brute looked vicious, and he perfectly hates me. I don’t know why.”
Laughton wouldn’t commit himself to an opinion, and the general feeling at the prefects’ table was about evenly divided as to whether the Doctor would take it up or not.
“If you could only have seen yourself, Haviland!” cut in Cluer, another prefect. “It was enough to kill a cat, I swear it was. It looked for all the world as if you and Nick were trying which could crowd on the most side.” And he spluttered over the recollection.
“Jolly good fun for you, Cluer, no doubt,” said Medlicott, “and for all of us, but it’s beastly rough on Haviland, remember.”
“Rather, if Nick’s in one of his rotten moods,” said Laughton. “But let’s hope he won’t be.”