“You boys think me a dreadful old tyrant for keeping you slaving away at your classics and mathematics, because you recollect the work that you are often so unwilling to do, while the hours I give you for play quite slip your minds. Now, this is my invariable rule, that you shall do everything well: work hard when it’s work, and play hard when it’s play.”
The two lads, Glyn Severn and his companion of many years, Aziz Singh, a dark English boy in appearance and speech, but maharajah in his own right over a powerful principality in Southern India, strolled right away over the grass to the extreme end of the Doctor’s extensive grounds, chatting together as boys will talk about the incidents of the morning.
“Oh,” cried the Indian lad angrily, “I wish you hadn’t stopped me. I was just ready.”
“Why, what did you want to do, Singhy?” cried the other.
“Fight,” said the boy, with his eyes flashing and his dark brows drawn down close together.
“Oh, you shouldn’t fight directly after breakfast,” said Glyn Severn, laughing good-humouredly.
“Why not?” cried the other fiercely. “I felt just then as if I could kill him.”
“Then I am glad I lugged you away.”
“But you shouldn’t,” cried the young Indian. “You nearly made me hit you.”
“You had better not,” said Glyn, laughing merrily.