“I did. I would not shirk my punishment, and flinch from the coals of fire which were heaped on my head. I even enjoyed them. But my conscience has been very sore, and feels better now than it has done for a long time.”
“You have not got absolution yet,” said Forsyth.
“Not by long chalks,” cried Kavanagh. “Jam! And apricot of all jams. If you really want to wipe out the crime you must make restitution.”
“Gladly; but would not that be difficult?”
“Not at all; you can do it in kind. At compound interest three pots will clear you, I should say; or, if it don’t run to that, say two.”
“Two will do,” echoed Forsyth. “Who’s that at the door?”
“It’s me,” said a youth—dressed in a chocolate coat with brass buttons—entering the room.
“Oh, happy Josiah!” exclaimed Kavanagh; “careless of rules, and allowing your nominative and accusative cases to wander about at their own sweet will; what pangs would be yours at mid-day to-morrow if you were a scholar instead of a page, and said ‘Hominem sum,’ or uttered any other equivalent to your late remark! Shades of Valpy and Arnold—‘It’s me!’”
“Mr Wheeler wants to see you at once,” said Josiah, not listening to the criticism on his grammar, and addressing Forsyth.
“My tutor wants to see me? What on earth about, I wonder?”