"Do you mean that for me, Mr. Loftus?" spluttered Lamb, who was sitting opposite to Loftus at the table. "Because if you do—"
"There you go, Lamb, you and your corky temper, interposed good-humoured Leek.
"You be quiet, Onions. I say that if he does, I'll make him prove his words."
There was a smothered laugh. The notion of Lamb's making a senior prove anything, was good, especially Loftus.
"I don't mean it for Lamb in particular, unless he chooses to take it to himself," coolly drawled Loftus. "I have no reason for supposing he can take it."
The semi-apology did not satisfy Lamb. He knew that he was called the "sneak," par excellence; he knew that he did many little underhand things to deserve it. Consequently he always strove to appear particularly white; and to have this grave suspicion thrown upon him was driving him wild.
"I believe that Loftus knows I was no more out last night than he was," said Lamb, giving his Virgil a passionate wrench, which tore the cover—"that you all know it."
"As far as I can understand, not a soul of you went out, except Smart and Loftus minor," observed the senior boy, who really wished to heal the general discomfort. "None of you were missed."
"And that's true," said Lamb. "And if it comes to that, who is to say that it was not that new fellow did it, after all? Took up the pistol and shot it off by accident, and went and said what he did to screen himself."
"What new fellow? Do you mean Paradyne?" quickly asked Irby, following out some association of ideas in his mind.