“Oh, I have got more than that. I have got half-a-sovereign. Shall we go to Plymouth, and sail for somewhere abroad?”
“Yes, anywhere, so that we don’t have to meet your father.”
“Ah,” said Glyn, who was trying very hard to make the lock of hair he had combed over a bruise stop in its place, but it kept jumping up again and curling back to the customary position in spite of applications of cold water and pomatum.
“Well, what do you mean by ‘Ah’?” grumbled Singh.
“Mean by ‘Ah’?” replied Glyn slowly. “Why, it means what a stupid old chucklehead you are. Run away! Likely, isn’t it?”
“Oh, too late! too late!” cried Singh, for there was another sharp tap at the door, and Wrench entered smartly, closely followed by his cat.
“Doctor’s compliments, gentlemen, and you are to come down into the drawing-room directly.—And just you go back to the pantry at once,” he shouted at his cat. “How many more times am I to tell you that you are not to follow me up into the young gentlemen’s rooms?”
“Bah!” shouted Glyn, and he threw the hairbrush he held smartly at the footman, who caught it cleverly, as if he were fielding a ball at mid-wicket, and deposited it upon the dressing-table.
“Well caught, sir!” cried the man, eulogising his own activity. “There, never mind, gentlemen; go down and get it over. There ain’t anything to be ashamed of. If I was you, Mr Severn, I should feel proud at having licked that great big disagreeable chap. I shall be glad to see his back. He’s quite big enough to leave school.”
“Ah!” said Glyn with a sigh. “Come on, Singhy; Wrench is right. Let’s get it over; only I want to bathe my face again. It smells of old Mother Hamton’s embro— what did she call it? You may as well go on first. I won’t be long.”