We ran down-stairs, and, feeling very nervous, hurried to the schoolroom, from whose open windows came the clatter of knives and forks.
Fortunately for us, we had to enter at the opposite end to where the Doctor would be seated, nominally taking his meal with us, and of course the ushers knew that we must be late, so with heads bent down we hurried in, conscious that every eye was upon us, and that the temporary cessation of the rattle on the plates was due to the boys leaving off eating to stare at our injuries.
I saw both Mr Rebble and Mr Hasnip look up and frown as they caught sight of my damaged face, and I was congratulating myself on escaping the Doctor’s eye, when he looked up, frowned, and went on with his lunch.
“It’s all right,” whispered Mercer, scuffling into his place beside me, the boys around, to my great surprise, seeming to look at my marks with quite respectful eyes, and evidently as a conqueror’s honours or laurels, when there was a sharp tapping on the table from the Doctor’s knife-handle.
Profound silence ensued, Mercer just gripping my knee and whispering,—
“Oh, crikey!”
“Mr Rebble,” said the doctor in deep tones.
“Sir?”
“To the commercial man punctuality is the soul of business; to the gentleman it is the soul of honour; and to the scholastic pupil it is the soul of er—er—the soul of er—er—er—duty. Be good enough to see that Mercer and Burr junior have impositions. Er—rum! Er—rum!” The Doctor finished by coughing in a peculiar way, and the clatter of knives and forks began again.
“He don’t know yet about the fights,” I whispered; “and, I say, look!”