“Can’t you do your work without groaning like that?” said Dick, when the small boy, for about the fiftieth time, stumbled over his hexameters.
“I beg your pardon,” said Aspinall, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“Who said you did?” retorted poor Dick, longing for a quarrel with some one. “What’s the use of flaring up like that?”
“I didn’t mean—I’m sorry if I—”
“There you go. Why can’t you swear straight out instead of mumbling? I can’t hear what you say.”
“I beg your pardon, Dick.”
“Shut up, and get on with your work, and don’t make such a noise.”
After that the wretched Aspinall hardly dared dip his pen in the ink, or turn over a page, for fear of disturbing his badger companion. It was a relief when presently Cresswell entered and gave him a chance of escape.
“Well, youngster,” said the senior, when he and Dick were left alone, “I’m glad you had the sense to turn up at the levée.”
“I’m sorry I did,” said Dick, shortly.