Such a woebegone Plunger it was! His wiry thatch was more dishevelled than usual. The eyebrows seemed to have made a more desperate attempt than ever to invade the territory of the forehead. The self-assurance which had been the distinguishing mark of Plunger's manner had gone.
"Le' me go—le' me go!" he groaned. "I want to die!"
"Die!" Paul could scarcely refrain from laughing. "There's not much of that about you! You're not one of those whom 'the gods love,' so you'll never die young, Plunger. What have you been up to? I believe you've been smoking."
This accusation brought Plunger to a sitting posture on the bed.
"I haven't been smoking—I haven't been smoking! It's the flag!"
"What about the flag?"
"I angled for it, and thought I'd hooked it; but I hadn't. Some other fellow had; so instead of hooking the flag I got a beastly swishing. That's not all. I shall get roasted all round, and, of course, the Two J.'s will be poking fun at me in the 'Gargoyle Record.' I'd like to know who the fellow was who got the flag. Have you heard?"
"I have heard, but I haven't time to go into it just now. Your friend Moncrief minor can tell you all about it. Cheer up, Plunger, and don't talk any more about dying."
Paul hurried off, leaving Plunger to digest the scanty information he had given him as best he could.
"Now for Stan!" he said, as he made his way to the common room, but little dreaming what was there in store for him.