“Get dressed, I think,” said Glyn. “Don’t be what old Brohanne calls a bête—big fool. Do as I do. Go and have it out with the dad, and get out of one’s misery. He won’t be very hard.”
“Oh, if it was only a good—good—good— What’s that you say?”
“Bullying?”
“No, no. It was a bit of slang, and I like to use bits of English slang when I can; they’ll be so useful to know by-and-by when I am scolding my people. Not bullying, but—”
“Oh, you mean tongue-thrashing?” said Glyn.
“Yes, that’s it, tongue-thrashing. I wouldn’t mind then. I feel so ashamed of myself.”
“All right. So do I, I suppose, for making a mess of it when I wanted the dad to think that I had managed you so well that I was making myself fit to be your friend and companion when we both grew up to be men.”
The next minute the lads were busy making their preparations to descend for a little study before the breakfast-bell should ring; and as he washed and dressed, Glyn’s brow looked wrinkled and cloudy, for he was thinking very seriously all the while.
On the other hand, Singh dressed himself as if he had a quarrel with everything. He chipped the edge of the basin as he handled the ewer, dropped the lid of the soap-dish with a clatter, and as he washed himself he burst out with an angry ejaculation, for the wet soap was gripped so tightly and viciously that it flew out of his hand as if in fear, and dived right under the bed to the farthest end, where it had to be hunted out and retrieved, covered with the flue that had been forgotten by one of the maids; while the way in which he finished off with his towel was harsh enough to produce a smarting sensation upon his skin.