“Oh, bless you, he’ll have worked it off in half an hour. What do you bet I don’t get him to do my Latin prose for me this afternoon?”
Forrester knew his man; and that afternoon, as if nothing had happened, the junior sat in the Cad’s study, eating some of the Cad’s bread and jam while the Cad wrote out the junior’s exercise for him.
Chapter Two.
A Football Tragedy.
The two days’ grace which Mr Frampton had almost reluctantly allowed before putting into execution his new rule of compulsory athletics told very much in his favour.
Bolsover, after the first shock, grew used to the idea and even resigned. After all, it would be a variety, and things were precious dull as they were. As to making a rule of it, that was absurd, and Frampton could hardly be serious when he talked of doing so. But on Saturday, if it was fine, and they felt in the humour—well, they would see about it.
With which condescending resolution they returned to their loafings and novels and secret cigarettes, and tried to forget all about Mr Frampton.
But Mr Frampton had no idea of being forgotten. He had the schoolmaster’s virtue of enthusiasm, but he lacked the schoolmaster’s virtue of patience. He hated the dry-rot like poison, and could not rest till he had ripped up every board and rafter that harboured it.