With the morning came in the requisition for me to attend before the dean. When I got there, who should be stealing out of the room quite sheepishly, his face down and his ears red, but Gaiton.
“Is it your turn, Ludlow!” he cried, closing the room-door as softly as though the dean had been asleep inside.
“What have you been had up for, Gaiton?”
“Oh, nothing. I got knocking about a bit last night, for Mrs. Everty did not receive, and came across that confounded proctor.”
“Is the dean in a hard humour?”
“Hard enough, and be hanged to him! It’s not the dean: he’s ill, or something; perhaps been making a night of it himself: and Applerigg’s on duty for him. Dry old scarecrow! For two pins, Ludlow, I’d take my name off the books, and be free of the lot.”
Dr. Applerigg had the reputation of being one of the strictest of college dons. He was like a maypole, just as tall and thin, with a long, sallow face, and enough learning to set up the reputations of three archbishops for life. The doctor was marching up and down the room in his college-cap, and turned his spectacles on me.
“Shut the door, sir.”
While I did as I was bid, he sat down at an open desk near the fire and looked at a paper that had some writing on it.
“What age may you be, Mr. Ludlow?” he sternly asked, when a question or two had passed. And I told him my age.