“You,” replied Vane, with his hand holding open a Greek Lexicon.
“Then mind your lessons, schoolboy,” retorted Distin sharply. “Did you never see a gentleman roll a cigarette before?”
“No,” said Vane quietly, and then, feeling a little nettled by the other’s tone, he continued, “and I can’t see one now.”
Distin half rose from the table, crushing a partly formed cigarette in his hand.
“Did you mean that for another insult, sir?” he cried in a loud, angry voice.
“Oh, I say, Distie,” said Gilmore, rising too, and catching his arm, “don’t be such a pepper-pot. Old Weathercock didn’t mean any harm.”
“Mind your own business,” said Distin, fiercely wrenching his arm free.
“That is my business—to sit on you when you go off like a firework,” said Gilmore merrily. “I say, does your father grow much ginger on his plantation?”
“I was speaking to the doctor’s boy, and I’ll thank you to be silent,” cried Distin.
“Oh, I say, don’t, don’t, don’t!” cried Macey, apostrophising all three. “What’s the good of kicking up rows about nothing! Here, Distie,” he continued, holding out his box; “have some more jumble.”