“Very well, Griffin, very well. I will speak to the head-master about you. And who is this miserable weed?”
There had been no break in the drawl of Mr. Selby’s voice with this change of subject, and Edwin did not hear, or heard without understanding. Griffin shook him by the shoulder. He lurched forward like a creature coming out of a cellar into day light.
“Ingleby, sir,” he said.
“Ingleby . . . Oh, yes. Let me see. You won’t need to take the placing exam. to-morrow because of your scholarship papers. You’ll be in the lower fourth. So Griffin will look after you. Do you hear, Griffin? I think Ingleby will be in your form. You are not overwhelmingly likely to get a move, are you?”
Griffin murmured “No, sir.”
“Then you can conduct this Ingleby to D dormitory, Griffin.”
Griffin whispered “Come on,” and walked ahead down the length of the corridor and another flight of stairs to a room of immense length, with whitewashed walls, along which were ranged as many as thirty red-blanketed beds. Down the centre of the dormitory a trestled table of well-scoured wood held a double row of wash-hand basins and soap-dishes.
“There you are,” said Griffin, in a very off-hand way. “You’d better bag a bed.”
“Which one is mine, please?” Edwin asked. His head was aching so furiously that he could have lain down on the floor.
“I’ve told you, you’ve got to bag one. Don’t you hear? You’d better go and ask that man over there. Try the next one to his.”