“It means,” said Stephen, “the fellows say they are jolly glad to get rid of us.”
“Eh?” yelled Bramble; “oh, I say, you fellows, come to the meeting! Jolly glad! They aren’t a bit glad.”
“They say so,” said Paul. “Hold hard, Bramble, let’s read the rest.”
It was all his friends could do to restrain the ardent Bramble from summoning a meeting on the spot to denounce the Dominican and all its “crams.” But they managed to hold him steady while they read on.
“The Doctor never did a more—pat—pat—ri—what do you call it?—patriotic deed than this!”
“Hullo, I say, look here!” cried Stephen, turning quite yellow; “the Doctor’s in it, they say, Bramble. ‘The small animals’—that’s you and Padger—‘are to be kept in their own quarters.’ Whew! there’s a go.”
“What!” shrieked Bramble, “who says so? The Doctor never said so. I shall do what I choose. He never said so. Bother the Doctor! Who’s coming to the meeting, eh?”
But at that moment the grave form of Doctor Senior appeared in the midst of the group, just in time to hear Master Bramble’s last complimentary shout.
The head master was in the most favourable times an object of terror to the “guilty-conscienced youth” of the Fourth Junior, and the sight even of his back often sufficed to quell their tumults. But here he stood face to face with his unhappy victims, one of whom had just cried, “Bother the Doctor!” and all of whom had by word and gesture approved of the sentiment. Why would not the pavement yawn and swallow them? And which of them would not at that moment have given a thousand pounds (if he had it) to be standing anywhere but where he was?
“Go to your class-room,” said the Doctor, sternly, eyeing the culprits one by one, “and wait there for me.”