“The mischief is,” continued Blandford, “they get such a shady lot of fellows there now. The school’s not half as respectable as it was—there are far too many shopkeepers’ sons and that sort of—”
“Sort of animal, he’d like to say,” laughed Horace. “Bland can’t get over being beaten for the French prize by Barber, the tailor’s son.”
Blandford flushed up, and was going to answer when Reginald interposed.
“Well, and suppose he can’t, it’s no wonder. I don’t see why those fellows shouldn’t have a school for themselves. It’s not pleasant to have the fellow who cuts your waistcoat crowing over you in class.”
Horace began to whistle, as he generally did when the conversation took a turn that did not please him.
“Best way to remedy that,” said he, presently, “is not to get beaten by your tailor’s son.”
“Shut up, Horace,” said the elder brother; “what’s the use of making yourself disagreeable? Bland’s quite right, and you know you think so yourself.”
“Oh, all serene,” said Horace, cheerfully; “shouldn’t have known I thought so unless you had told me. What do you think, Harker?”
“Well,” said Harker, laughing, “as I am disreputable enough to be the only son of a widow who has barely enough to live on, and who depends on the charity of a cousin or some one of the sort for my education, I’m afraid Bland and I would have to go to different schools.”
Every one laughed at this confession, and Reginald said,—