“I was—that is, I was told to go to bed,” said Heathcote.
“Well, and if you were, what business have you got here? Go to your own den.”
“This is where I slept last night,” said Heathcote, pointing to the identical bed he had occupied.
“You did! Like your howling cheek.”
“Where is my bed room then?” asked Heathcote.
“Why didn’t you ask the matron? I’m not going to fag for you. There, in that second door; and take my advice, slip into bed as quick as you can, unless you want one of the Fifth to catch you, and give you a hundred lines.”
Heathcote whipped up his night-gown and made precipitately for the door, finally convinced that he was in a fair way of getting into a row very early in his Templeton career.
The door opened into a little room about the size of a small ship’s cabin, and here he undressed as quickly as he could, in the fading daylight, and slipped into bed, inwardly congratulating himself that no one had detected him in the act, and that he had a good prospect, contrary to his expectations, of getting to sleep comfortably. The thought of the 200 lines, certainly, was unpleasant. But “sufficient unto the day,” thought the philosophic Heathcote. He was far more concerned at the fate of the unsuspecting Dick. What would become of him, poor fellow?
Amid these reflections he fell peacefully asleep. The next thing he was conscious of, in what seemed to him the middle of the night, was the sudden removal of the clothes from the bed, and a figure holding a light, catching him by the arm, and demanding fiercely—
“What do you mean by it?”