There was gloom in every face save one, and that appertained to Morris, who watched his opportunity, button-holed Glyn and Singh, and led them off into the solitude of the lecture-hall.
“Good news!” he said. “Splendid news! Gentlemen, this is entirely a private matter between us three, and I know you will be ready to rejoice.”
“What, have you got some fine appointment, Mr Morris?” cried Glyn, who had grown to be on quite friendly terms with the master in a very short time of late, Morris making a point of treating him always with genuine respect, and aiding him in every way possible—coaching him, in fact, with his mathematics, in which, truth to tell, Glyn did not shine.
“No,” cried Morris, in answer to the lad’s question; “it is better than that. Somebody else has.”
“You mean Professor Barclay?” said Singh.
“Yes, sir; I mean Professor Barclay. I have had a letter from him this morning telling me of his success, and that he leaves for India directly, to take up some post in connection with the Sanskrit college.”
“I am very glad,” said Singh, “for he must have been dreadfully poor.”
“Sadly so,” said Morris.
“I am glad too,” said Glyn; “very.”
“You don’t know what a relief it is to me,” continued Morris confidentially.