"I should have thought that the washing of cups might have struck you as a fairly obvious thing to do."
"Yes; I'm sorry."
"The fact of the matter is, you're getting a bit above yourself. Just because you're clever you think you're everyone. Now you're too good to wash cups."
"It wasn't that really, Leopard. I forgot."
"Well you damned well mustn't forget. You're too good to keep awake. That's just as bad. Now get out, you little beast, and come to me after prayers."
Martin went back to his Keats in misery. He could guess what was in store for him, but he could not be certain, because Spots might have recovered from his wrath by the appointed time and then he might treat the matter as a joke. But if Spots didn't recover ... well, then he would be swiped. Martin had never been caned at his private school and this would be his first experience; he wondered how much it would hurt. Then fear came surging over him, not the dread of anything definite, but the hideous fear of the unknown. He was not so much afraid that he would be hurt as that he would show that he had been hurt: that was the deadly, the unpardonable, sin. He wished to heaven he had been swiped before so that he might know his own capacity for endurance. Keats became intolerable. House tea was a long-drawn agony. Discussion centred on the match and the brilliant play of Raikes.
"What did old Spots want?" asked Caruth. "He seemed to be in the deuce of a hair."
"Only about cleaning cups," said Martin gloomily.
"Thank the Lord I'm not a study-slut. Was he very ratty?"
"Oh, not very. Flannery, you hog, pass the bread."