“Ah, you have a lot to learn, Singhy. English gentlemen don’t fight like that.”
Chapter Eleven.
The Cutting of the Cock’s Comb.
There was a smart brush at the school a few days later, which resulted in the cutting of Slegge’s comb. The Doctor was seated at his study-table, with the open French window letting in the fresh morning breeze and giving him a view, when he raised his eyes from his book, right across the cricket-field to the clump of elms, when there was a tap at the door, responded to by the customary “Come in!” and Mr Rampson entered.
“Ah, good-morning, Mr Rampson,” said the Doctor suavely.
“Good-morning, sir. Could you give me a few minutes?”
“Certainly, Mr Rampson,” replied the Doctor, sitting back. “Have you something to report?”
“Well, no, sir, not exactly, but—er, but er—I er—thought I should like to ask you if I had given you satisfaction in connection with my pupils.”