Perrin gulped down his annoyance, sat down, and poured out his tea. It was cold and leathery. Dormer was busily writing lists of names. The Lower School was divided into two houses—Dormer was house-master of one, and Perrin of the other. The other two junior men were under house-masters: Clinton belonged to Dormer; and Traill, the new man, to Perrin. Both houses were in the same building, but the sense of rival camps gave a pleasant spur of emulation and competition both to work and play.
“I say, Perrin, “have you made out your bath-lists? Then there are locker-names—I want.” Perrin snapped at his bread and butter. “Ah, Dormer, please—my tea first.”
“All right; only, it's getting on to four.”
For some moments there was silence. Then there came timid raps on the door. Perrin, in his most stentorian voice, shouted, “Come in!”
The door slowly opened, and there might be seen dimly in the passage a misty cloud of white Eton collars and round, white faces. There was a shuffling of feet.
Perrin walked slowly to the door.
“Here we all are again! How pleasant! How extremely pleasant! All of us eager to come back, of course—um—yes. Well, you know you oughtn't to come now. Two minutes past four. I 'll take your names then—another five minutes. It's up on the board. Well, Sexton? Hadn't you eyes? Don't you know that ten minutes past four is ten minutes past four and not four o'clock?”
“Yes, sir, please, sir—but, sir—”
Perrin closed the door, and walked slowly back to the fireplace.
“Ha, ha,” he said, smiling reflectively; “had him there!”