“Heathcote.”
“A new boy?”
“Yes.”
“How is it you’re not in bed? Do you know the time?”
“Yes,” said Heathcote, convinced now that the junior had been right, “but I didn’t know—that is—”
“Shut up and don’t tell lies,” said the Fifth-form boy, severely. “Go to bed instantly, and write me out 200 lines of Virgil before breakfast to-morrow. I’ve a good mind to send your name up to Westover.”
“I’m awfully sorry,” began Heathcote; “no one told me—”
“I’ve told you; and if you don’t go at once Westover shall hear of it.”
The dormitory, when he reached it, was deserted. Not even Aspinall was there; and for a moment Heathcote began again vaguely to suspect a plot. From this delusion, he was, however, speedily relieved by the appearance of a boy, who followed him into the room, and demanded.
“Look here; what are you up to here?”