"And the greasy Trendall. He's always sure to be somewhere within distance," growled Masters.
"And if that isn't Harvey, with Sturton near him, I'm not worth listening to," observed Clive, as if he were speaking of a certainty. "Yes, there's Harvey, hand in hand with Miss Withers."
"But—I don't understand," said Bert, smiling grimly when some few minutes had passed. "There are hundreds of our fellows. They're arriving every minute. Surely——"
Slowly it began to dawn upon the little band that perhaps all their secrecy and all their effort had been wasted.
"Supposing leave was given for the school to skate here," suggested Hugh, aghast at the thought.
"There's Smith Primus. Let's ask him," cried Clive, catching sight of a fellow of his acquaintance.
"But there's Canning still there," said Masters, with something approaching a groan. "Supposing leave's been given for the school to skate here——"
"And supposing—which seems a moral certainty—that we've made out-and-out fools of ourselves," interjected Bert satirically.
"Oh, shut up, do!" growled Masters, while Hugh caught his brother by the collar. "Supposing that's the case——"
"What?" demanded the incorrigible Bert. "That we've made asses of ourselves? That's dead certain."