“Falsi,” said Bags.
“Yes, suggestio falsi, as it can stick. The best thing you can do is to go and talk it over with Crossley, and then come back and tell us what you propose to tell the Head. If you don’t make a clean breast of it to him, and let him see that he’s only got a garbled—yes, I said garbled—version of it at present, you may be sure we shall. And when you’ve made up your minds, come back and tell us. Tap at the door first.”
The unstuffed Manton rose.
“Yes, I’ll do that,” he said. “Er—thanks.”
The door closed behind him, and David, who was growing extremely red in the face with suppressio risus, turned over and buried his face in the sofa-cushions, kicking wildly in the air. The other learned brethren stifled themselves lest Manton should hear them, and for a few minutes the Court of Appeal writhed in the agonies of silent mirth.
“O Lord,” said David at length, “I didn’t know there was such richness in the world! To think that half an hour ago that little squirt thought he had us on toast. Toast’s there all right, but ’tisn’t we who are on it. And now he’s making up another version which is ours, and wanting to know if that’ll satisfy us for him to go to the Head with. O Lord!”
“Too much mercy to let him,” said Bags.
“Not a bit of it. It’s much more effective if Manton puts our side of it to the Head.”
“But what if he doesn’t tell the Head all he says he’s going to?” asked Plugs.
“He must. The only way he can save his face is by going to him at once, before Adams can. Oh, there’s toast enough! Besides, when the Head sees us, we can soon tell if Manton’s given him the correct version.”