“So you’ve eaten humble pie for nothing, been humbugged into promising to go to a childish affair you ought to be ashamed to be seen at, and been choused out of the only bit of fun and jollity that has come in our way this half. I wish you joy of your promised holiday, you good little boys,” was Biggington’s sarcastic speech, when he learned the result of their mission.
“Chaff away, Big-un” (a familiar abbreviation of Biggington’s patronymic, of which only the elite of the sixth were permitted to make use), returned Fowler, good-humouredly. “Jacky’s a stunning good old fellow, after all, and I, for one, shall go, to show him I don’t bear malice; you’d better pocket your dignity for once, Big-un, and come too!”
“Not if I know it, to please either old fools or young ones,” was the unamiable reply; and, turning on his heel, Biggington walked angrily away, followed, at no great distance, by Stradwick and two or three other recusants.
In spite, however, of their disapproval, the morning performance went off with great éclat; and those who attended it, amongst whom were a large proportion of the sixth form boys, raved about their delight to such a degree, that even Bigging-ton, albeit he pretended to take the matter with a high hand, felt intensely provoked, and thrashed most unmercifully a small boy, who, in the innocence of his heart, incautiously promulgated his opinion, within the tyrant’s hearing, that “any one who could have gone and did not, must be a precious slow coach, and no mistake.”
As for the fictions founded on facts, upon which the prolific imagination of Wilfred Jacob delighted to expatiate, they had such an effect upon poor Hugh, that he fairly cried himself to sleep that night, from sheer vexation and disappointment.
The next morning, a flashily dressed, sharp-looking young man, who was none other than the usher introduced by Wilfred Jacob into his description of the Tickletown masters by the nickname of Pentameter, but whose proper appellation was Sprattly, and who was, as Wilfred had truly stated, anything but a gentleman, approached a group, consisting of Biggington, Stradwick, and one or two others, with whom he appeared on the most intimate and confidential terms.
“I say, old fellows,” he began, “is it actually true that the Doctor won’t let you go to the theatre at night?”
“Yes, worse luck,” was the reply.
“And are you going to stand it quietly?” continued Sprattly.
“Eh? why what can we do to help ourselves? If the whole of the sixth had stuck together, we might have made something of it; but that ass, Fowler, was talked over. He says Jack appealed to his feelings, or sympathies, or some such disgusting rubbish. So Fowler went, and took half the form with him; and altogether, if I was to express my true opinion, I think the whole affair is about as absurd, not to say disgraceful, to all parties as it well can be.”