"Lucky devil," said the other, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "I've got to stay here."
"Is it your home."
"In a sort of way, yes--pupil at the vicarage and all that shoot, don't you know--it's a five-act funeral of a place, but we manage to get some tra-la-la out of it."
"Who are we?" asked the doctor, mightily amused at Mr. Pemberton's colloquialisms.
"Oh! I forgot you're a stranger here--why, Reggy Blake, myself, and Priggs."
"Priggs?"
"One of the pupils," explained the communicative Richard, "a jolly ass--writes poetry--lines to Chloe, and all that sort of thing--hasn't got an idea beyond the Muses as he calls 'em--beastly old frumps--Reggy's a good sort of chappie--he's in the taproom now--come and see the fun--we often stand beer to the rustics and they sing us songs--twenty verses long and no stops."
"Do you know Beaumont well?" asked Nestley, following his youthful guide to the taproom.
"Not very, he's only been here a fortnight, but the vicar knows him; he's a native of these parts, not a bad sort of chap but awfully stand off the grass; gets up on his hind legs pretty freely. Do you know him?"
"To my cost," replied the doctor bitterly.