“Well, where is it?” said Singh, a few minutes later.
“I couldn’t find it,” was Glyn’s reply. “Here you had better take your keys.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Professor’s Gratitude.
There was a great talk at the Doctor’s establishment about the event of the season, an event that filled the boys’ brains, seniors and juniors, for weeks before it took place, and brought forth a rebuke from the Doctor one morning at breakfast, for the masters were reporting that the papers sent in by the boys were very much wanting in merit. There was a report, too, going about that Monsieur Brohanne had been seen walking up and down the class-room tearing his hair—a most serious matter in his case, for it was exceedingly short.
Matters had come to such a pitch that the Doctor sternly gave quite a little lecture upon the duty of every pupil to do his very best, whether at work or play, saying that a boy who could not give his mind to working could not devote it to playing well. And if in future, he said, his pupils did not work hard, he should be obliged to make them suffer the contumely of sending in word that they would not be able to meet Strongley School in the annual cricket-match.
“I regret it very much, young gentlemen,” said the Doctor; “but if you will disgrace your alma mater by idleness, I have no other alternative. Duty and pleasure must go hand in hand.”
The boys groaned that morning, and broke up into little knots after breakfast to discuss the matter. Little jealousies were forgotten, and Slegge declared it was too bad of the Doctor, who seemed to be blaming them, the seniors, for the failings of those lazy little beggars the juniors, just when their picked eleven had arrived at such perfection, through his batting, Glyn’s bowling, and the Nigger’s wicket-keeping, that success was certain.