"Yes," said the Caterpillar.
"I never believed it," said Scaife.
"He was a Spaniard,[8] or an Italian, you know," the Duffer explained. "The duke of something or t'other; and an ambassador came down and offered the beggar the Spanish crown, when he was in the First Fourth, and of course he gobbled it—who wouldn't? And then Victor Emmanuel interfered. That's all true, you can take your Bible oath, because my governor told me so, and he—well, he's a parson."
"Then it must be true," said Scaife. "Now, young Fluff, don't forget that Harrow is a school fit for a king and nearer to Heaven than Eton by at least six hundred feet."
So saying, the Demon marched out of the room, followed by Fluff, slightly limping.
"Sorry I turfed[9] that little ass so hard," said the Duffer to John. "I say, Verney, the Demon is rather a rum 'un, ain't he? Sometimes I can't quite make him out. He's frightfully clever and all that, but I had a sort of beastly feeling just now that he didn't—eh?—quite mean what he said. Was he laughin' at us, pullin' our legs—what?"
John's brain worked slowly, as he had found out to his cost under a form-master who maintained that it was no use having a fact stored in the head unless it slipped readily out of the mouth. The Duffer, who never thought, because speaking was so much easier, grew impatient at John's silence.
"Well, you needn't look like an owl, Verney. You know that Scaife's grandfather was a navvy."
"I don't know," John replied.
"And I don't care," said the Duffer. "Let's go and have some food at the Creameries."