They found themselves walking up a long, high-ceilinged room, with desks all round and a few very appalling oil portraits ranged along the walls, to a table where sat a small, handsome gentleman in cap and gown.
He took Mr Ashford’s letter, and the boys knew they stood in the presence of Dr Winter.
“Richardson, Heathcote, Coote,” said the Doctor. “Answer to your names—which is Richardson?”
“I am, please, sir.”
“Heathcote?”
“I am, sir, please.”
“Coote?”
“I am, if you please, sir.”
“Richardson, go to desk 6; Heathcote, desk 13; Coote, desk 25.”
Coote groaned inwardly. It was all up with him now, and he might just as well throw up the sponge before he began. With a friend within call he might yet have struggled through. But what hope was there when the nearer of them was twelve desks away?