“Is it bad?” asked Drummond, awed by these mystic utterances.
“My dear boy,” replied the doctor, breezily, “it is always bad when one twists one’s ankle.”
“How long will it do me out of footer?” asked Barry.
“How long? How long? How long? Why, fortnight. Fortnight,” said the doctor.
“Then I shan’t be able to play next Saturday?”
“Next Saturday? Next Saturday? My dear boy, if you can put your foot to the ground by next Saturday, you may take it as evidence that the age of miracles is not past. Next Saturday, indeed! Ha, ha.”
It was not altogether his fault that he treated the matter with such brutal levity. It was a long time since he had been at school, and he could not quite realise what it meant to Barry not to be able to play against Ripton. As for Barry, he felt that he had never loathed and detested any one so thoroughly as he loathed and detested Dr Oakes at that moment.
“I don’t see where the joke comes in,” said Clowes, when he had gone. “I bar that man.”
“He’s a beast,” said Drummond. “I can’t understand why they let a tout like that be the school doctor.”
Barry said nothing. He was too sore for words.