When Plunger thought his first item of news had soaked itself thoroughly into the "bounders" of the Fifth, he read the second item. This fell rather flat and elicited no comment.
Then Plunger began to bubble over again. He could not get on for a minute or two.
"What's the ass giggling for?" "Get on, get on," and so forth, were some of the comments that greeted him.
"'Hints on Fashion,'" read Plunger. "'A fresher of the Third'—ho, ho!—'is prepared to give hints on the correct style in trousers, spats, and white waistcoats. How they should be worn, and why.'—Ho, ho! Hold me up.—'References exchanged and given—through the matron—preferably by carte-de-visite.' Ho, ho! Hold me up."
Plunger's eyebrows disappeared into his thatch of hair, and he laughed till he was black in the face, while all eyes went to poor Harry Moncrief, who devoutly wished that the ground might open and he might sink through.
"Is that all, Plunger?" inquired Arbery. "Get on to the next paragraph, or you'll choke."
"I couldn't get any farther for laughter," explained Plunger. "I thought you fellows would like that little tit-bit, so I rushed in here." He took up the paper again, and glanced at the next item. "This seems rather a good bit. 'Lost, stolen, or strayed. Missing Link from the Third. Last seen in all his native beauty on—on——"
Plunger came to an abrupt pause, hummed and hawed, and began to look exceedingly uncomfortable.
"'Last seen in all his native beauty——' Well, Plunger, what are you stopping for now?" cried Leveson. "If you can't read it yourself, hand over the Record to some one who can."
"Shan't; it's my paper, and I'm not going to hand it over to any one—see," answered Plunger defiantly, putting the paper behind his back.