“Eh? Isn’t it? I think it is. Why, some of us might have been scalded to death, and we have all escaped. Don’t you call that a cause for rejoicing? What do you say, Vane?”
“I say, sir, that I shall never forgive myself,” replied the lad sadly.
“Not your place, Weathercock, but mine, and your aunt’s. I’ll forgive you freely, and as for your aunt, she can’t help it because she was partly to blame.”
Chapter Seventeen.
Anxieties.
“Hallo, boiler-burster,” cried Gilmore, next time they met, while Macey ran into a corner of the study to turn his face to the wall and keep on exploding with laughter, “when are you going to do our conservatory up here?”
“Oh, I say, don’t chaff me,” cried Vane, “I have felt so vexed about it all.”
“Distie has been quite ill ever since with delight at your misfortune. It has turned him regularly bilious.”