This appeal had the effect of reducing the volatile Horace to a state of quiescence, and inducing him to come and share the shade with his companions.
“Never saw such a lazy lot,” said he, lying flat on his back and balancing his racquet on his finger; “you won’t do anything yourselves and you won’t let any one else do anything. Regular dogs in the manger.”
“My dear fellow,” said the fourth of the party in a half drawl, “we’ve been doing nothing but invite you in to the manger for the last hour, and you wouldn’t come. Can’t you take a holiday while we’ve got one?”
“Bad luck to it,” said Reginald; “there’s only a week more.”
“I don’t see why you need growl, old man,” said the visitor who had spoken first; “you’ll get into the sixth and have a study to yourself, and no mathematics unless you like.”
“Poor Harker,” said Horace, “he’s always down on mathematics. Anyhow, I shan’t be sorry to show up at Wilderham again, shall you, Bland?”
“Depends on the set we get,” drawled Bland (whose full name was Blandford). “I hear there’s a crowd of new fellows coming, and I hate new fellows.”
“A fellow must be new some time or other,” said Horace. “Harker and I were new boys once, weren’t we, Harker?”
Harker, who had shared the distinction of being tossed with Horace in the same blanket every night for the first week of his sojourn at Wilderham, had not forgotten the fact, and ejaculated,—
“Rather!”