“Oh yes, sir,” cried Glyn eagerly. “Singh has elephants of his own, and we often used to go out together through the forest upon one as big as that.”
“Ha! Very interesting,” cried the Doctor. “I was under the impression that your proceedings this morning were—that is—in fact, that you both did it just for the sake of a ride.”
“Oh no, sir,” cried Glyn. “The men were all afraid of the elephant, and Singh spoke to it in Hindustani, and—”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” said the Doctor, smiling. “It was very brave, and—really, I cannot conceal the fact that I felt alarmed myself when the great furious beast came charging across the grounds. Yes, he speaks highly in praise of your conduct, and really, young gentlemen, I—I must apologise for having spoken to you as I did while suffering from a misunderstanding. Er—hum!” continued the Doctor didactically, and he rose slowly to stand waving the gold spectacles through the air, “it is the duty of every gentleman when he finds that he is in the wrong to acknowledge the fact with dignity and good grace. My dear young pupils, I hope I have properly expressed myself towards you both; and let me add that this will be a lesson to us, to me, against speaking in undue haste, and to you both as—er—
“Well, gentlemen,” he continued with a smile, “I don’t think I need detain you longer from your studies—I mean—er—from your pleasurable pursuits, as this is a holiday, and we will consider the incident as closed.”
Smiling benignantly, the Doctor marched slowly round the end of the table again, shook hands warmly with both his pupils, and then showed them to the door.
“Stop! By the way, a little idea has occurred to me. This is a day of relaxation. Mr Singh—er—it is an understood thing, as you know, that your title is to be in abeyance while you are my pupil; for, as I explained to your guardian, Colonel Severn, it would be better that there should be no invidious distinctions during your scholastic career—I should be glad if you and your friend the Colonel’s son would dine with me this evening. No dinner-party, but just to meet your three preceptors and a Mr—dear me, what was his name? Really, gentlemen, I am so deeply immersed in my studies that names escape me in a most provoking manner. A gentleman resident in the town here—a Sanskrit scholar, and friend of Mr Morris. Dear me! What was his name? There was something familiar about it, and I made a mental note, memoria technica, to be sure, yes—what was it? I remember the word perfectly now. ‘Beer.’ Dear me, how strange! And it doesn’t help me a bit. Really, gentlemen, I am afraid this memoria technica is a mistake. How, by any possibility could the name of the ordinary beverage of the working classes have anything to do with the professor’s name? Professor Beer—Professor Ale—Professor Porter—Stout? Dear me, how strange! Ah, of course—the great brewers, Barclay—Professor Barclay! At half-past six.”
“Thank you, sir. We will come,” said Singh, smiling.
“Precisely,” said the Doctor, and he stood smiling in the doorway as the boys passed out.
They were at the end of the hall passage when the door closed, and Wrench shot out from somewhere like a Jack from its box.