“I think,” said Traill, shortly, “following up murder trials like that is perfectly beastly. It isn't civilized.”
“All right!” said Clinton, helping himself to the remaining sausages. “Perrin's having breakfast in there, isn't he? He won't want any more.”
“He sometimes does,” said Traill, feeling that at the moment he hated Clinton's good-natured face more than anything in the whole world. “He's awfully sick if he comes in hungry and doesn't find anything.”
Clinton smiled. “He's rather amusing when he's sick,” he said. “He so often is. By the way, has the Head passed those exam, questions of yours yet?”
“No,” said Traill, frowning. “He 's made me do them five times now, and last time he crossed but a whole lot of questions that he himself had suggested the time before. I pointed that out to him, and he called me, politely and gently, but firmly, a liar. There's no question that he's got his knife into me now, and I've got friend Perrin to thank for it!”
“Yes,” said Clinton, helping himself to marmalade, “Perrin does n't love you—there's no question of that. Young Garden Minimus has been helping the feud.”
“Garden? What's he got to do with it?”
“Well, you know that he was always Old Pompous' especial pet—well, Pompous has riled him, kept him in or something, so now he goes about telling everybody that he's transferred his allegiance to you. That makes Pompous sick as anything.”
“I like the kid especially,” Traill said. “He 's rather a favorite of mine.”
“Yes,” said Clinton. “Well, look out for trouble, that 's all. There 'll be open war between you soon if you are not careful.”