“Never mind, Cetchy, old chap. Perhaps it won’t come to that, after all,” were some of the well-meant attempts to console him. But he would have none of it, and turned away, sorrowful and speechless.
The while, in many a group, recent events were being volubly discussed.
“I always hated Haviland,” declared one youngster emphatically. “He was such a brute when he was a prefect. But I like him now, since he cheeked Nick. He is a plucky beggar.”
“Now then, get along to your places—sharp, d’you hear?” commanded two or three prefects, breaking up such groups—for it was preparation time.
Haviland, after a day and a half of solitary confinement—retirement would perhaps be a better word, for he was not under lock and key—had reached the stage of sullen resignation. Of course he would be expelled.
There was no hope, and now that it had come to this, and he had had time to think, he felt that he would give anything for another chance. Then his heart hardened. The Doctor had driven him into it, had simply persecuted him with an unrelenting spite: and his thoughts were bitter and black and revengeful. In the midst of which a sound of firm footsteps was heard outside, and the door opened, admitting—the Doctor. A hard resentful scowl came upon the young fellow’s face, and he gazed sullenly before him.
“Haviland, you are to go home immediately.”
“Of course,” thought Haviland to himself. “Now for it! I am to be shot out, and the old brute’s going to preach me a humbugging canting sermon first.”
But there was no sternness in the Doctor’s voice as he went on. It was solemn, almost affectionate.