Rawlings was determined to let there be no misunderstanding. He stretched across the carriage and took Clive by the ear.
"None of your caddish games at Ranleigh," he said, "or you'll get something worse than this, by a long way."
Clive beat him off with a well-directed blow on the arm. In fact, with such heat and violence that Rawlings, still enraged at the loss he had so stupidly made when tipping the porter, lost his temper, and it looked as if he would at once take in hand the chastisement of the lad who was such a near neighbour. But the third individual suddenly distracted his attention. Could Rawlings really believe his eyes! This new chap, whoever he might be, a froggy probably, had asked if the train went to Ranleigh, and therefore, obviously, was bound for that destination, and must be a new boy. He was actually stretching himself out across the carriage, with one boot resting against Rawlings's immaculate trousers, while—worse than all—he had a cigarette in his mouth and was setting a match to it. It wasn't the fact of smoking that horrified Rawlings. He had broken that rule himself, and been dreadfully ill, much to his chagrin. But Rawlings was getting up in the school. He was in the lower sixth, would probably be a prefect this term, and such an act was an outrage to his dignity.
"Well, I'm hanged!" he spluttered. "What on earth do you mean by that? Smoking! Here, stop it!"
But the one addressed merely viewed him mildly. His brows went up questioningly, while he stretched himself a little more at his ease, causing Rawlings to remove his immaculate trouser leg with swiftness.
"Do you hear?" he cried threateningly. "What's your name?"
"Richard Feofé."
"Hang the Richard! Feofé, then. Look here! Stop that smoking."
But Feofé still regarded Rawlings mildly, and taking a deep inspiration filled the carriage with smoke.
"You do not like it, then?" he asked. "Monsieur can then get into another carriage."