"You can't prove it!" retorted Fletcher, turning first white and then red.
"I can prove it up to the hilt. You had the confounded cheek to borrow from me the very book of songs you used when you wrote the parody, and you were fool enough to leave the rough copy in it when you brought it back. It's there now, in your writing. Shall I send for it? it's on my study table at this moment."
The culprit muttered something about it's being "only a joke," but his reply was lost amid a storm of hoots and hisses.
"Sneak!" cried one voice; "Turn him out!" yelled another; while the object of this outburst of animosity, recovering himself sufficiently to glance round with a contemptuous sneer on his face, fell back, and endeavoured to hide his confusion by entering into conversation with Gull and Thurston.
Fletcher had come a nasty cropper, and reaped what, sooner or later, is the inevitable reward of double-dealing.
Once more the sympathy of the meeting was enlisted on the side of Allingford and the prefects, and the crowd dispersed, resolved to discover, if possible, who had made the attack on Browse, and determined that such acts of disorder were not to be tolerated in the future.
"Hullo, old chap!" said Thurston, entering his friend's study a few moments later; "you made rather a mess of that speech of yours. I'm inclined to think you've damaged your reputation."
"I don't care," returned the other; "we're both leaving at the end of this term. As for Allingford, just let him look out: it'll be my turn to move next, and there's plenty of time to finish the game between now and Christmas."
It was a bright, crisp afternoon. Almost everybody hurried away to change for football.
"Where's Diggy?" asked Jack Vance, as he and Mugford strolled out to the junior playing field.