“Here’s Burr junior queer. Does he want a doctor, do you think?”
Mr Rebble looked at me attentively for a few moments, and then said quietly,—
“No; only a bilious headache, I should say. Go and lie down for an hour or two, my lad, and perhaps it will pass off.”
I gladly crawled up to our dormitory, took off my jacket and boots, and lay down on the bed, when I seemed to drop at once into a doze, from which I started to find Mercer seated by the window looking out.
“Better?” he said, as I stirred.
“Better! No; I feel very ill. But what are you doing here?”
“Come to sit with you,” he said stolidly.
Just then there was a burst of cheering, and the crunching noise made by wheels.
“Here they are,” cried Mercer excitedly. “Oh, I say, I do wish you were better! I should like to lick those Hastings chaps.”
“Then why don’t you go?” I said pettishly. “Go and bowl.”