“No, no,” said the ensign, dolefully, “it’s a good wigging.”
Bob Roberts, although feeling far from exalted now, did not in anywise believe in the possibility of receiving what his companion euphoniously termed a “wigging,” and with a good deal of his customary independent, and rather impudent, swagger he followed the orderly to a cool lamp-lit room, where sat in solemn conclave, the resident, Major Sandars, and Captain Horton.
“That will do, Gray,” said Major Sandars, as the youths entered, and saluted the three officers seated like judges at a table, “but be within hearing.”
“Might ask us to sit down,” thought Bob, as he saw from the aspect of the three gentlemen that something serious was afloat.
But the new arrivals were not asked to sit down, and they stood before the table feeling very guilty, and like a couple of prisoners; though of what they had been guilty, and why they were brought there, they could not imagine.
“It’s only their serious way,” thought Bob; “they are going to compliment us.”
He stared at the shaded lamp, round which four or five moths and a big beetle were wildly circling in a frantic desire to commit suicide, but kept from a fiery end by gauze wire over the chimney.
“What fools moths and beetles are!” thought Bob, and then his attention was taken up by the officers.
“Will you speak, Major Sandars?” said the resident.
“No, I think it should come from you, Mr Linton. What do you say, Captain Horton?”