“More can I. Get on with your work, and don’t bother.”
This was forwarded by library table post, and then there was nothing heard but the scratching of the tutor’s pen. But Mike’s restlessness increased: he fidgeted and shuffled about in his chair, shook the table, and tried all kinds of positions to help him in solving his algebraic problem, but without avail. Scrub oaks, ravens and red-legged choughs danced before his eyes; great dark holes opened in the rocks, and the desire to finish work, get out in the bright sunshine, and run and shout, seemed more than he could bear.
At last, to relieve his feelings a little, he took a fresh piece of paper, laid it over his pluses and minuses and squares and cubes, and then wrote enigmatically:
“Lanthorn and rope.”
This he blotted, glanced at the hard-working student across the table, and then thrust it sidewise to Vince, who took it, read it, and, turning it over, wrote:
“You be hanged!”
He was in the act of blotting it when the pen dropped from Mr Deane’s fingers; he sat up, and extended his hand as he looked sternly across the table.
“Give me that piece of paper, Vincent,” he said.
Vince hesitated; but the tutor’s eyes gazed firmly into his, and wrong yielded to right.
He passed the paper across to Mr Deane, and then nearly jumped out of his chair, for Mike gave him a violent kick under the table.