Peter, passing into the quadrangle, met Dundoon. He was in riding breeches. He lived in riding breeches, till they became for Peter a symbol of well-born inanity. Moreover, he was freely indulging his principal pleasure—namely, he was vigorously cracking a riding-whip, making the walls ring with snap after snap.
"Hullo," he said as Peter passed within careful distance.
"Idiot," muttered Peter between his teeth.
"Freshly roasted by the Wuggins—What?"
"Dundoon, you're a damned nuisance. Put it away."
"It's most important, Peter Pagger. It's most devilish important. M.F.H.—What?"
Dundoon cracked his whip rather more successfully than usual. The snap tingled in Peter's brain. In a fit of temper he sprang at Dundoon, and wrenched the whip from his hand.
Dundoon looked at Peter's gleaming eyes as though he had seen the devil.
"What's this? In the name of Hell what is it?" he said at last.