On reaching the door of his room he thrust it open quietly, and found Singh kneeling down before his Indian bullock-trunk, lifting out some of its contents ready to make place for something else.
“Why, hallo! There you are, then!” Singh started as sharply as if he had received a slap on the shoulder, scrambled up something long tied up in brown paper that lay by his side, thrust it into the trunk, and began to cover it quickly with some of the articles that had been taken out.
“Ha, ha! Caught you!” cried Glyn. “What have you got there? Cakes or a box of sweets?”
“Neither,” said Singh rather slowly.
“Oh, all right, I don’t want to know,” cried Glyn good-humouredly. “But I know: you mean a surprise—a tuck-out to-night when we come to bed. Who are you going to ask?”
“No one,” said Singh shortly.
“Oh, I would. Ask Burney and Miller. They’re good chaps, only Slegge keeps them under his thumb so. They’d give anything to break away, I know.”
Singh was silent.
“Here, I say,” cried Glyn, “I tell you what would be a rare good bit of fun, and if the Doctor knew he wouldn’t notice it. Let’s get about a dozen of the little chaps some night, Burton and Robson, the small juniors, and give them a regular good feed quite late. They would enjoy it. What do you say?”