“He told me he had ‘a way of his own’ for making his pupils obey him,” said I.
“Did he? Ah, you’ll soon find out what a brute he is! Let us look at your nose, though, Martin, before you go in. You recollect what he said about not fighting, eh?”
“Yes; does it look all right now?” I asked, anxiously.
“Pretty well,” said Tom, critically examining the damaged organ. “A little bit puffy on the off side but I think it will pass muster, and you’ll escape notice if that sneak Slodgers doesn’t split about his eye—which I believe you’ve pretty nicely marked for him.”
“Do you think he’ll tell?” I whispered to Tom as we ascended the steps and he turned the handle of the door leading into the house.
“More than likely, if the Doctor pitches on to him! He will spin a fine story about your having attacked him, too, to excuse himself; for he’s a liar as well as a cur and a bully. But, come on, Martin, look sharp! There’s the second gong, and if we’re not at table in our seats before it stops, it’ll be a case of pickles!”
With these words, Tom dashed into the passage with me after him; and, after racing up a bare, carpetless flight of stairs, I found myself in a wide large room, which, the evening having closed in, was lighted up only by a single gas-burner. This made its bareness all the more apparent; for, with the exception of having a long table stretching from end to end—now covered with a semi-brownish white table-cloth, and cups and saucers and plates, not forgetting a monstrous big tin teapot like a Chinese junk, in the centre, and a couple of narrow deal forms without backs placed on either side for seats—the apartment had no other furniture, a broad shelf attached to the wall opposite the fireplace serving as a buffet, and an armchair at the head of the festal board, for the presiding master, completing its equipment.
Tom had whispered to me as we went up-stairs that either “Smiley” or “The Cobbler” would officiate at the tea-table, those two worthies taking that duty in turn; but this evening, strange to say, whether in honour of my arrival or on account of some other weighty motive, the seat of honour at the end of the table was filled by the portly form of the head of the establishment.
“By Jove!” ejaculated Tom, sliding into a vacant place along the form nearest the door, and motioning to me to follow his example, “something’s up, or he wouldn’t be here!”
Tom’s supposition proved correct.