“I say,” Lonsdale offered, “you haven’t met Fane. Mr. Fane—Mr. Grainger. I was just saying to Fane that the Etonians are a rotten lot this term.”
“One or two are all right,” Grainger admitted with evident reluctance.
“Well, perhaps two,” Lonsdale agreed. “This dinner isn’t bad, what?”
By this time the conversation at the table had become more general, and Michael gradually realized that some of the alarm he had felt himself had certainly been felt by his companions. Now at any rate there was a perceptible relaxation of tension. Still the conversation was only general in so much as that whenever anybody spoke, the rest of the table listened. The moment the flow of his information dried up, somebody else began pumping forth instruction. These slightly nervous little lectures were delivered without any claim to authority and they came up prefaced by the third person of legendary narrative.
“They say we shall all have to interview the Warden to-morrow.”
“They say on Sunday afternoon the Wagger makes the same speech to the freshers that he’s made for twenty years.”
“They say we ought to go head of the river this year.”
“They say the freshers are expected to make a bonner on Sunday night.”
“They say any one can have commons of bread and cheese by sending out word to the buttery. It’s really included in the two-and-fourpence for dinner.”
“They say they charge a penny for the napkin every night.”