"Have the goodness to call up Aultane," said the dean, after a few words of courtesy, as he stood by the master's desk.
"Senior, or junior, Mr. Dean?"
"The chorister."
"Aultane, junior, walk up," cried the master. And Aultane, junior, walked up, wishing himself and his tongue and the dean, and all the rest of the world within sight and hearing, were safely boxed up in the coffins in the cathedral crypt.
"Now, Aultane," began the dean, regarding him with as much severity as it was in the dean's nature to regard anyone, even a rebellious college boy, "you preferred a charge to me yesterday against the senior chorister; that he had been pledging his gold medal at Rutterley's. Have the goodness to substantiate it."
"Oh, my heart alive, I wish he'd drop through the floor!" groaned Aultane to himself. "What will become of me? What a jackass I was!"
"I did not enter into the matter then," proceeded the dean, for Aultane remained silent. "You had no business to make the complaint to me on a Sunday. What grounds have you for your charge?"
Aultane turned red and white, and green and yellow. The dean eyed him closely. "What proof have you?"
"I have no proof," faltered Aultane.
"No proof! Did you make the charge to me, knowing it was false?"